Aye, Fortune, thou hast hostage of my best!
I, that was once so heedless of thy frown,
Have armed thee cap-à-pie to strike me down,
Is parceled out in little hands, and brown
Bright eyes, and in a sleeping baby's gown:
Upon the makeshift armor of my heart,
For thee no honor lies in such a fight!
Who came awake with such a painful start
To hear the coughing of a child at night.
Hostages.