We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.
My love's more richer than my tongue.
Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well.
Alas, I am a woman friendless, hopeless!
Nature's tears are reason's merriment.
Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.