Oft from new truths, and new phrase, new doubts grow, As strange attire aliens the men we know.

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

Man hath weaved out a net, and this net throwne upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.

Filled with her love, may I be rather grown Mad with much heart, than idiot with none.

The difference between the reason of man and the instinct of the beast is this, that the beast does but know, but the man knows that he knows.

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

All Kings, and all their favorites, All glory of honors, beauties, wits, The sun itself, which makes times, as they pass, Is elder by a year, now, than it was When thou and I first one another saw: All other things, to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay; This, no tomorrow hash, nor yesterday, Running, it never runs from us away, But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.