It is great To do that thing that ends all other deeds, Which shackles accidents and bolts up change.

Is this a vision? Is this a dream? Do I sleep?

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

Wolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.

How quickly nature falls into revolt When gold becomes her object! For this the foolish over-careful fathers Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care, Their bones with industry.

Foul whisperings are abroad

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.