The gallantry of his grief did put me into a towering passion.
Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod.
Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.