Why, Thou Owest God A Death.

Yon Grey Lines That Fret The Clouds Are Messengers Of Day.

I’ll Look To Like, If Looking Liking Move; But No More Deep Will I Endart Mine Eye Than Your Consent Gives Strength To Make It Fly.

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On, Give Me Excess Of It; That Surfeiting, The Appetite May Sicken, And So Die.

Methinks You Are My Glass, And Not My Brother: I See By You I Am A Sweet-faced Youth.

Love Surfeits Not, Lust Like A Glutton Dies; Love Is All Truth, Lust Full Of Forged Lies