If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

Nothing but man of all envenomed things, doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.

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

Busy old fool, unruly Sun, why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent.

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

This Extasie doth unperplex (We said) and tell us what we love, Wee see by this, it was not sexe, Wee see, we saw not what did move: But as all severall soules contain Mixture of things, they know not what, Love, these mixt souls, doth mixe againe. Loves mysteries in soules doe grow, But yet the body is his booke.