If I dream I have you, I have you, for all our joys are but fantastical.

Our faults are not seen, But past us; neither felt, but only in The punishment.

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

That subtle knot which makes us man So must pure lovers souls descend T affections, and to faculties, Which sense may reach and apprehend, Else a great Prince in prison lies.

The day breaks not, it is my heart.

Love was as subtly caught, as a disease; But being got it is a treasure sweet, which to defend is harder than to get: And ought not be profaned on either part, for though 'Tis got by chance, 'Tis kept by art.

There is nothing that God hath established in a constant course of nature, and which therefore is done every day, but would seem a Miracle, and exercise our admiration, if it were done but once.