Sacred religion! mother of form and fear.

The stars that have most glory have no rest.

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

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.

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

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.