All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.
Without outward declarations, who can conclude an inward love?
I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we lov'd?
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
It is too little to call man a little world; Except God, man is a diminutive to nothing.