The Moon Of Rome, Chaste As The

Arise, Fair Sun, And Kill The Envious Moon, Who Is Already Sick And Pale With Grief That Thou, Her Maid, Art Far More Fair Than She. . . .

So Curses All Eve's Daughters Of What Complexion Soever.

Ay; Beauty's Princely Majesty Is Such, Confounds The Tongue And Makes The Senses Rough.

Each Substance Of A Grief Has Twenty Shadows.

Words, Vows, Gifts, Tears, And Love's Full Sacrifice, He Offers In Another's Enterprise; But More In Troilus Thousand-fold I See Than In The Glass Of Pandar's Praise May Be, Yet Hold I Off.