It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover.

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.

What is light, if Sylvia be not seen? What is joy if Sylvia be not by?

To saucy doubts and fears.

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Nor that full star that ushers in the even, Doth half that glory to the sober west, As those two mourning eyes become thy face: O! let it then as well beseem thy heart To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace, And suit thy pity like in every part. Then will I swear beauty herself is black, And all they foul that thy complexion lack

Rich honesty dwells like a miser, Sir, in a poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster.