We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse; And if no peace of chronicle we prove, We'll build in sonnet pretty rooms; As well a well wrought urne becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs.

There is hook in every benefit, that sticks in his jaws that takes that benefit, and draws him whither the benefactor will.

Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.

All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.

...Whatever dies was not mixed equally, If our two loves be one Or thou and I love so alike That none can slacken, none can die.

Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.

Full nakedness! All my joys are due to thee, as souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be, to taste whole joys.