O, what damned minutes tells he o'er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet fondly loves!
We are gentlemen that neither in our hearts nor outward eyes envy the great nor shall the low despise.
Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close;And let us all to meditation.
For we which now behold these present days have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs. Being purged a fire sparkling in lovers eyes, being vexed a sea nourished with lovers tears, What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall and a perserving sweet.