Love hath made thee a tame snake

Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud; but, God He knows, thy share thereof is small.

Trust not my reading, nor my observations, Which with experimental seal do warrant The tenor of my book.

Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

By innocence I swear, and by my youth, I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, And that no woman has, nor never none Shall mistress be of it save I alone.

How much more doth beauty beauteous seem by that sweet ornament which truth doth give!

Now, infidel, I have you on the hip!