That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
Love is a growing, or full constant light; And his first minute, after noon, is night.
Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
Enjoyment always has a spoiling, otherwise it cannot be so.
No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.