Yet This My Comfort: When Your Words

Yea From The Table Of My Memory I'll Wipe Away All Trivial Fond Records.

There Are Occasions And Causes, Why And Wherefore In All Things.

The Strawberry Grows Underneath The Nettle And Wholesome Berries Thrive And Ripen Best Neighbour'd By Fruit Of Baser Quality.

She Never Told Her Love, But Let Concealment, Like A Worm 'i Th' Bud, Feed On Her Damask Cheek. She Pinned In Thought; And, With A Green And Yellow Melancholy, She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief. Was Not This Love Indeed? We Men May Say More, Swear More; But Indeed Our Shows Are More Than Will; For We Still Prove Much In Our Vows But Little In Our Love.

If We Shadows Have Offended, Think But This, And All Is Mended, That You Have But Slumber'd Here While These Visions Did Appear.