We cannot fight for love, as men may do; we shou'd be woo'd, and were not made to woo
Many that are not mad have, sure, more lack of reason.
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet Grace must still look so.
I feel it gone, yet know not when it left.
A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.
Love bears it out even to the edge of doom.