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.

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

Great sorrows cannot speak.

Let not thy divining heart Forethink me any ill; Destiny may take thy part, And may thy fears fulfill.

How many times go we to comedies, to masques, to places of great and noble resort, nay even to church only to see the company.

Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.

Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.