HOSTAGES

Aye, Fortune, thou hast hostage of my best!

I, that was once so heedless of thy frown,

Have armed thee cap-A - pie to strike me down,

Have given thee blades to hold against my breast.

My virtue, that was once all self-possessed,

Is parceled out in little hands, and brown

Bright eyes, and in a sleeping baby's gown:

To threaten these will put me to the test.

Sure, since there are these pitiful poor chinks

Upon the makeshift armor of my heart,

For thee no honor lies in such a fight!

And thou wouldst shame to vanquish one, me-thinks,

Who came awake with such a painful start

To hear the coughing of a child at night.