Sweet is true love, though given in vain.

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

He that wrongs a friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar ever condemned.

Nor is it wiser to weep a true occasion lost, but trim our sails, and let old bygones be.

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

Half the night I waste in sighs, Half in dreams I sorrow after The delight of early skies; In a wakeful dose I sorrow For the hand, the lips, the eyes, For the meeting of the morrow, The delight of happy laughter, The delight of low replies.

Wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.