I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we lov'd?

Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.

Now God comes to thee, not as in the dawning of the day, not as in the bud of the spring, but as the sun at noon to illustrate all shadows, as the sheaves in harvest, to fill all penuries, all occasions invite his mercies, and all times are his seasons.

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.

In heaven it is always autumn.

Doubt wisely; in strange way To stand inquiring right, is not to stray; To sleep, or run wrong, is.

Love is a growing, or full constant light; And his first minute, after noon, is night.