If this be love, to clothe me with dark thoughts, haunting untrodden paths to wail apart; my pleasures horror, music tragic notes, tears in mine eyes and sorrow at my heart. If this be love, to live a living death, then do I love and draw this weary breath.
The best thing of our life, our rest, and give us up to toil.
Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using. Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries, Hey ho.
And who in time knowes whither we may vent the treasure of our tongue, to what strange shores this gaine of our best glorie shal be sent, tinrich unknowing Nations with our stores? What worlds in thyet unformed Occident may come refind with th’ accents that are ours?
Men do not weigh the stalk for that it was,
This honour is a thing conceived And rests on others fame.
As that the walls worn thin, permit the mind To look out through, and his Frailty find.
My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning. The world shall find this miracle in me that fire can burn when all the matters spent: then what my faith hath been thyself shalt see, and that thou wast unkind thou mayst repent— thou mayst repent that thou hast scornd my tears, when Winter snows upon thy sable hairs.
This many-headed monster, Multitude.
Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew, Whose short refresh upon tender green, Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show And straight is gone, as it had never been.
No April can revive thy withered flowers, whose blooming grace adorns thy glory now; swift speeding Time, feathered with flying hours, dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow. Oh let not then such riches waste in vain, but love whilst that thou mayst be loved again.