Who is it can read a woman?
How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.
I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursued my humor not pursuing his, And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.
I understand thy kisses, and thou mine, And that's a feeling disputation.
Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered!
Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.