Coal-black Is Better Than Another Hue In

These Are The Forgeries Of Jealousy; And Never, Since The Middle Summer's Spring, Met We On Hill, In Dale, Forest, Or Mead, By Paved Fountain Or By Rushy Brook, Or In The Beached Margent Of The Sea, To Dance Our Ringlets To The Whistling Wind, But With Thy Brawls Thou Hast Disturbed Our Sport.

Some Kinds Of Baseness Are Nobly Undergone.

What, Gone Without A Word? Ay, So True Love Should Do; It Cannot Speak, For Truth Hath Better Deeds Than Words To Grace It.

He That Commends Me To Mine Own Content Commends Me To The Thing I Cannot Get. I To The World Am Like A Drop Of Water That In The Ocean Seeks Another Drop, Who, Falling There To Find His Fellow Forth, Unseen, Inquisitive, Confounds Himself: So I, To Find A Mother And A Brother, In Quest Of Them, Unhappy, Lose Myself.

In Black Ink My Love May Still Shine Bright.