Love is a circle that doth restless move in the same sweet eternity of love.
My soul I'll pour into thee.
Happy is the bride that the sun shines on.
The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score; Then to that twenty, add a hundred more: A thousand to that hundred: so kiss on, To make that thousand up a million. Treble that million, and when that is done, Let's kiss afresh, as when we first begun.
Twixt kings and tyrants there's this difference known; Kings seek their subjects' good: tyrants their own.