You take my life when you do take the means whereby I live
To beguile the time, look like the time. Bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue.
Miracles are ceased; and therefore we must needs admit the means, how things are perfected.
The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself
Love is like a child, That longs for everything it can come by
Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears: Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?