A bride, before a "Good-night" could be said, Should vanish from her clothes into her bed, As souls from bodies steal, and are not spied. But now she's laid; what though she be? Yet there are more delays, for where is he? He comes and passeth through sphere after sphere; First her sheets, then her arms, then anywhere. Let not this day, then, but this night be thine; Thy day was but the eve to this, O Valentine.

And to 'scape stormy days, I choose an everlasting night.

Can there be worse sickness, than to know that we are never well, nor can be so?

Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.

Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.

Who knows his virtues name or place, hath none.

How great love is, presence best trial makes, But absence tries how long this love will be.