If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.

Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?

If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

Out of this nettle - danger - we pluck this flower - safety.

Love is a spirit all compact of fire.

In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.

The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?