Is it thy will, thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While shadows like to thee do mock my sight? Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee So far from home into my deeds to pry, To find out shames and idle hours in me, The scope and tenor of thy jealousy? O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great: It is my love that keeps mine eye awake: Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake: For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.

The man that hath no music in himself

I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman.

If [God] send me no husband, for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening.

I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered.

Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.

Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.