Give me my sin again.

Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies

Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough.

There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it.

Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you.

Love reasons without reason.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away.