Friendship is full of dregs.
She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared
Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.
And in some perfumes there is more delight than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know that music hath a far more pleasing sound.
But like of each thing that in season grows.
Oh! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves.