They whose guilt within their bosom lies, imagine every eye beholds their blame.

Tell them, that, to ease them of their griefs, Their fear of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, Their pangs of love, with other incident throes That nature's fragile vessel doth sustain In life's uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them.

Go to you bosom: Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know.

Good morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, All in the morn betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your valentine.

Thou weigh'st thy words before thou givest them breath.

Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger, Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart; Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.

All love's pleasure shall not match its woe.