The Hand Of Little Employment Hath The

The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth.

You Know That Love Will Creep In Service Where It Cannot Go.

Sweets To The Sweet.

Love Is My Sin, And Thy Dear Virtue Hate, Hate Of My Sin, Grounded On Sinful Loving.

Feed On Her Damask Cheek: She Pined In Thought, And With A Green And Yellow Melancholy She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief