Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.

To roam Giddily, and be everywhere but at home, Such freedom doth a banishment become.

I shall die reading; since my book and a grave are so near.

Thy face is mine eye, and mine is thine.

Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.

Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were

Nature hath no goal though she hath law.