O war! thou son of Hell!
A pair of star-crossed lovers.
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.
I have a kind soul that would give you thanks. And knows not how to do it but with tears.
It is not night when I do see your face.
All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told.