My soul is in the sky.

The big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase.

Is it thy will, thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While shadows like to thee do mock my sight? Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee So far from home into my deeds to pry, To find out shames and idle hours in me, The scope and tenor of thy jealousy? O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great: It is my love that keeps mine eye awake: Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake: For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.

Though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor stands in worse case of woe

Demand me nothing: what you know, you know.

I do begin to have bloody thoughts.

The world is grown so bad, That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch.