Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night.

He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.

Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger

Come, and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow.

it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance

Let still woman take An elder than herself: so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart, For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner to be lost and warn, Than women's are.