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

Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using.

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.

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born; Relive my languish, and restore the light.

Custom, that is before all law; Nature, that is above all art.

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.