The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, And say what thou seest yond.
I do love nothing in the world so well as you- is not that strange?
The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.
We will have rings and things and fine array
Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.
Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight