My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am nor what I do.

Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on his back.

Love`s reason`s without reason

He was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea; singing aloud; Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.

My joy is death- Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard, Because I wish'd this world's eternity.

Shall remain! Hear you this Triton of the minnows? Mark you His absolute 'shall'?

Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves, when he did sing; To his music, plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die.