A maiden hath no tongue--but thought.
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
Where souls do couch on flowers we'll hand in hand.
A light heart lives long.
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.
Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.