When I waked, I cried to dream again

I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursued my humor not pursuing his, And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.

My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand.

To weep is to make less the depth of grief.

To beguile the time, look like the time. Bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue.

What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” “My hands are of your colour; but I shame to wear a heart so white. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy it is then! Your constancy hath left you unattended.

Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow