I Love Thee; None But Thee, And

A Glooming Peace This Morning With It Brings; The Sun, For Sorrow, Will Not Show His Head: Go Hence, To Have More Talk Of These Sad Things; Some Shall Be Pardon'd, And Some Punished: For Never Was A Story Of More Woe Than This Of Juliet And Her Romeo.

Canst Thou Not Minister To A Mind Diseased, Pluck From The Memory A Rooted Sorrow, Raze Out The Written Troubles Of The Brain

He That Commends Me To Mine Own Content Commends Me To The Thing I Cannot Get.

Honest Plain Words Best Pierce The Ear Of Grief.

Love Is Like A Child, That Longs For Everything It Can Come By