We That Are True Lovers Run Into

So Shalt Thou Feed On Death, That Feeds On Men.

Let Still Woman Take An Elder Than Herself: So Wears She To Him, So Sways She Level In Her Husband's Heart, For, Boy, However We Do Praise Ourselves, Our Fancies Are More Giddy And Unfirm, More Longing, Wavering, Sooner To Be Lost And Warn, Than Women's Are.

Can I Go Forward When My Heart Is Here?

Striving To Better, Oft We Mar What’s Well.

Then With The Losers Let It Sympathize, For Nothing Can Seem Foul To Those That Win.