Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, And we are for the Dark.
No legacy is so rich as honesty.
My age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.
My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me, That I must love a loathed enemy.
Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me.
Oh, how this spring of love resembleth, The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all beauty of the Sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away