T'is true: there's magic in the web of it.
Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks, Shall win my love.
Come, and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow.
By Heaven, my soul is purg'd from grudging hate; And with my hand I seal my true heart's love
It was always yet the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common.
It is thyself, mine own self's better part; Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart; My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim, My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.