Is Not Birth, Beauty, Good Shape, Discourse,

Is Twenty Hundred Kisses Such A Trouble?

The Mind Of Guilt Is Full Of Scorpions.

The Language I Have Learnt These Forty Years, My Native English, Now I Must Forgo; And Now My Tongue's Use Is To Me No More Than An Unstringed Viol Or A Harp, Or Like A Cunning Instrument Cased Up Or, Being Open, Put Into His Hands That Knows No Touch To Tune The Harmony.

We Waste Our Lights In Vain, Like Lamps By Day.

She Moves Me Not, Or Not Removes At Least Affection's Edge In Me.