Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief

I can give the loser leave to chide.

I'll go find a shadow, and sigh till he come" (Phebe)

Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.

Waste not thy time in windy argument but let the matter drop.

The wounds invisible that Love's keen arrows make.

Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as when The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, Her ashes new-create another heir As great in admiration as herself.