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

Yet nothing can to nothing fall, Nor any place be empty quite; Therefore I think my breast hath all Those pieces still, though they be not unite; And now, as broken glasses show A hundred lesser faces, so My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore, But after one such love, can love no more.

To an incompetent judge I must not lie, but I may be silent; to a competent I must answer.

True and false fears let us refrain, Let us love nobly, and live, and add again Years and years unto years, till we attain To write threescore ; this is the second of our reign.

I long to talk with some old lover's ghost, Who died before the god of love was born.

We are all conceived in close prison; in our mothers wombs, we are close prisoners all; when we are born, we are born but to the liberty of the house; prisoners still, though within larger walls; and then all our life is but a going out to the place of execution, to death.

All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.