Love is . . . a madness most discreet

Do not spread the compost on the weeds.

Her virtues, graced with external gifts, Do breed love's settled passions in my heart; And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, So am I driven by breath of her renown Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive Where I may have fruition of her love.

The readiness is all.

Truth will come to sight; murder cannot be hid long.

Unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone.

You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense.