My Love Is Deep; The More I

Like The Lily That Once Was Mistress Of The Field And Flourished, I'll Hang My Head And Perish.

The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy Rolling, Doth Glance From Heaven To Earth, From Earth To Heaven; And As Imagination Bodies Forth The Forms Of Things Unknown, The Poet's Pen Turns Them To Shape, And Gives To Airy Nothing A Local Habitation And A Name; Such Tricks Hath Strong Imagination.

When Heaven Doth Weep, Doth Not The Earth O'erflow? If The Winds Rage, Doth Not The Sea Wax Mad, Threatening The Welkin With His Big-swoln Face? And Wilt Thou Have A Reason For This Coil? I Am The Sea; Hark, How Her Sighs Do Blow! She Is The Weeping Welkin, I The Earth: Then Must My Sea Be Moved With Her Sighs; Then Must My Earth With Her Continual Tears Become A Deluge, Overflow'd And Drown'd: For Why My Bowels Cannot Hide Her Woes, But Like A Drunkard Must I Vomit Them. Then Give Me Leave, For Losers Will Have Leave To Ease Their Stomachs With Their Bitter Tongues.

There Is Thy Gold, Worse Poison To Men's Souls, Doing More Murder In This Loathsome World, Than These Poor Compounds That Thou Mayst Not Sell.

As Full Of Spirit As The Month Of May, And As Gorgeous As The Sun In Midsummer.