O no, thy love though much, is not so great, It is my love that keeps mine eye awake, Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake. For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.

It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood.

Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste; Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.

If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear.

But the strong base and building of my love is as the very centre of the earth, drawing all things to it.

The course of true love never did run smooth.

Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, And we are for the Dark.