The Blood Of Youth Burns Not With

What Power Is It Which Mounts My Love So High, That Makes Me See, And Cannot Feed Mine Eye

Why Are Our Bodies Soft, And Weak, And Smooth But That Our Soft Conditions And Our Hearts Should Well Agree With Our External Parts?

As I Hope For Quiet Days, Fair Issue, And Long Life, With Such Love As 'tis Now, The Murkiest Den, The Most Opportune Place, The Strong'st Suggestion Our Worser Genius Can, Shall Never Melt Mine Honour Into Lust, To Take Away The Edge Of That Day's Celebration, When I Shall Think Or Phoebus' Steeds Are Founder'd Or Night Kept Chain'd Below.

Never Durst Poet Touch A Pen To Write Until His Ink Were Temper'd With Love's Sighs.

Nature Hath Meal And Bran, Contempt And Grace.