Virtue Itself Scapes Not Calumnious Strokes.

His Steeds To Water At Those Springs On Chaliced Flowers That Lies; And Winking Mary-buds Begin To Ope Their Golden Eyes: With Every Thing That Pretty Is, My Lady Sweet, Arise.

If I For My Opinion Bleed, Opinion Shall Be Surgeon To My Hurt, And Keep Me On The Side Where Still I Am.

Love Is . . . A Madness Most Discreet

While Thou Livest Keep A Good Tongue In Thy Head.

Then Love-devouring Death Do What He Dare.