Thou hast the most unsavoury similes.
O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.
As full of spirit as the month of May, and as gorgeous as the sun in Midsummer.
A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; His dew falls everywhere.
I’ll look to like, if looking liking move; But no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
My dear, dear Lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation; that away Men are but gilded loan or painted clay... Mine honor is my life; both grow in one; Take honor from me, and my life is done.