Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.

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.

She's gone. I am abused, and my relief must be to loathe her.

Is not the truth the truth?

Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour; And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.

Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast, yet love breaks through and picks them all at last.

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends.