Where souls do couch on flowers we'll hand in hand.
Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.
Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.
There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
Unsubstantial Death is amorous.
Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart, That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her.