My joy is death- Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard, Because I wish'd this world's eternity.
Upon his royal face there is no note how dread an army hath enrounded him.
O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast.
Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.
Mind your speech a little lest you should mar your fortunes.
A ministering angel shall my sister be.