I thought my heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion.
The rain, it raineth every day.
There is none of my uncle's marks upon you; he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.
Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds.
But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.
Stars hide your fires; let not light see my black and deep desires: The eyes wink at the hand; yet let that be which the eye fears, when it is done, to see