Many that are not mad have, sure, more lack of reason.
Comfort's in heaven, and we are on the earth
Each present joy or sorrow seems the chief.
Foul whisperings are abroad
My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date; But when in thee time's furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate.
What made me love thee? let that persuade thee, there's something extraordinary in thee