The Rain, It Raineth Every Day.

I Do Know When The Blood Burns, How Prodigal The Soul Lends The Tongue Vows.

There's Not The Smallest Orb Which Thou Behold'st But In His Motion Like An Angel Sings.

A Rotten Case Abides No Handling.

As Love Is Full Of Unbefitting Strains, All Wanton As A Child, Skipping And Vain, Form'd By The Eye And Therefore, Like The Eye, Full Of Strange Shapes, Of Habits And Of Forms, Varying In Subjects As The Eye Doth Roll To Every Varied Object In His Glance

Then Let Thy Love Be Younger Than Thyself, Or Thy Affection Cannot Hold The Bent.