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.

Let each man do his best.

Within the book and volume of thy brain.

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.

I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in.

Wish chastely, and love dearly.