Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.
My love is as a fever, longing still.
Season your admiration for a while.
O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.
To you your father should be as a god.
This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.