My brow is both beaten and bloodied, but it is not bowed
True, my countenance will be eyed by preying eyes proud
But so scarce shall they look upon my passions
For these no tunes shall be played, nor songs of the importune voiced
So know this knaves, before I fought, first I was a man
From fervoured straights of lashings was my eye made
And with these broken hands have I ruled your skies
So will you not hold your tongues, and let me die!