What , noble masters, all amort?
Why will ye be the mob-world's sport,
And let each knave his weapon pick
Wherewith to stab ye to the quick!

Lo! arms and charms ye do not lack
(If arms and charms could save from wrack),
Nor any point of crafty art
To triple fence and guard the heart!

Yet ye are scathed; unhurt am I,
Though to attack I open lie:
All nude of corselet, casque, or greave,
I wear my heart upon my sleeve!

My heart upon my sleeve I wear,
And all who see may read it there;
“That poor, plain thing, a heart?” they cry,
And subtle-minded pass it by.

I laugh, I sigh, I praise, I chide,
With moods of mirth and sadness pied;
They call me, then, chameleon elf
That hath no color of himself

But some, suspecting artifice,
The life they seek to take still miss,
Since all the deeper they may smite,
I bear my heart more high and light!

They think I case my bosom frail
With woven links of hidden mail;
The simple truth will none believe,—
I wear my heart upon my sleeve!

Still, noble masters, all amort?
Your shields, your plates of proof, fall short;
But wear the heart upon the sleeve,
And not a dint shall it receive!