O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven

Ay, is it not a language I speak?

Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest.

To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof little more than a little is by much too much.

Oh God! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea.

Lovers can do their amorous rites by their own beauties

I have been studying how I may compare This prison where I live unto the world; And, for because the world is populous, And here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer it out.