Say she rail; why, I'll tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown; I'll say she looks as clear As morning roses newly wash'd with dew. Say she be mute and will not speak a word; Then I'll commend her volubility, and say she uttereth piercing eloquence.

What made me love thee? let that persuade thee, there's something extraordinary in thee

Never anything can be amiss, when simpleness and duty tender it.

What light through yonder window breaks?

Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind, more than quick words, do move a woman's mind.

O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.

The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.