I have done one braver thing than all the Worthies did, and yet a braver thence doth spring, which is, to keep that hid.

The sun must not set upon anger, much less will I let the sun set upon the anger of God towards me.

My love though silly is more brave.

And dare love that, and say so too, And forget the He and She.

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

Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains, call on us? Must to thy motions lovers'seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late schoolboys, and sour prentices, Go tell court-huntsmen that the King will ride, Call countryants to harvest offices; Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed.