Be to yourself as you would to your friend.
Yea from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records.
A ministering angel shall my sister be.
Ere I could make thee open thy white hand, and clap thyself my love; then didst thou utter, I am your's for ever!
He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.