Modest wisdom plucks me from over-credulous haste.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.
A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; His dew falls everywhere.
The earth, that is nature's mother, is her tomb.
O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!
I profess not talking: only this, Let each man do his best.