Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .

Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on his back.

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover.

The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.

No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds?

O, call back yesterday, bid time return

These words are razors to my wounded heart.