Your Face Is A Book, Where Men

Write Till Your Ink Be Dry, And With Your Tears Moist It Again, And Frame Some Feeling Line That May Discover Such Integrity.

What Is Aught But As 'tis Valued?

What? Do I Love Her, That I Desire To Hear Her Speak Again, And Feast Upon Her Eyes

Opinion's But A Fool, That Makes Us Scan The Outward Habit By The Inward Man.

I Do Love Nothing In The World So Well As You- Is Not That Strange?