We, ignorant of ourselves, Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers Deny us for our good; so find we profit By losing of our prayers.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
Ambition, the soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss, than gain which darkens him.
I dote on his very absence.
Say, thou art mine; and ever, My love, as it begins, shall so persevere
O madam, my old heart is cracked, it's cracked!