What my tongue dares not that my heart shall say

Now the melancholy God protect thee, and the tailor make thy garments of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is opal.

Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck, And yet methinks I have astronomy. But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or season's quality; Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell ... Or say with princes if it shall go well.

Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, to love that well which thou must leave ere long

And all my mother came into mine eyes And gave me up to tears.