Love is a sickness full of woes, all remedies refusing.

Sacred religion! mother of form and fear.

Striving to tell his woes, words would not come; For light cares speak, when mighty griefs are dumb.

We come to know best what men are, in their worse jeopardizes.

The stars that have most glory have no rest.

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born, Relieve my languish and restore the light; With dark forgetting of my care return. And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill adventured youth: Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn Without the torment of the night's untruth.

Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew, Whose short refresh upon tender green, Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show And straight is gone, as it had never been.