And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire, The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmasks her beauty to the moon.

The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burnt on the water.

Let me confess that we two must be twain, although our undivided loves are one.

O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!

Time is the king of men.

Let the sap of reason quench the fire of passion.

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.