Hang There Like Fruit, My Soul, Till

What Infinite Heart's-ease Must Kings Neglect That Private Men Enjoy! And What Have Kings That Privates Have Not Too, Save Ceremony, Save General Ceremony?

Love Goes Toward Love.

Wise Men Ne'er Sit And Wail Their Woes, But Presently Prevent The Ways To Wail.

Let The Sap Of Reason Quench The Fire Of Passion.

Love's Not Time's Fool, Though Rosy Lips And Cheeks Within His Bending Sickle's Compass Come; Love Alters Not With His Brief Hours And Weeks, But Bears It Out Even To The Edge Of Doom. If This Be Error And Upon Me Prov'd, I Never Writ, Nor No Man Ever Lov'd.