There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it.

O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven

We see which way the stream of time doth run.

Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lender's books, and defy the foul fiend.

She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.

These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume