'By heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible true, that thou art beauteous truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal.

Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.

Bid me run, and I will strive with things impossible.

And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead. Go to thy deathbed. He never will come again.

To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth

Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.

All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.