Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.

Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear, Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand, And, touching hers, make blessèd my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, with sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.

People’s good deeds we write in water. The evil deeds are etched in brass.

All is well ended, if the suit be won.

No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.

O! that a man might know The end of this day's business, ere it come; But it sufficeth that the day will end, And then the end is known.