Alack, The Night Comes On, And The

So Foul And Fair A Day I Have Not Seen.

If There Were Reason For These Miseries, Then Into Limits Could I Bind My Woes. If The Winds Rages, Doth Not The Sea Wax Mad, Threat'ning The Welkin With Its Big-swoll'n Face? And Wilt Though Have A Reason For This Coil? I Am The Sea. Hark How Her Sighs Doth Blow. She Is The Weeping Welkin, I The Earth.

Weep Not, Sweet Queen, For Trickling Tears Are Vain.

What We Determine We Often Break. Purpose Is But The Slave To Memory.

If I Could Write The Beauty Of Your Eyes And In Fresh Numbers Number All Your Graces, The Age To Come Would Say, 'this Poet Lies; Such Heavenly Touches Ne'er Touch'd Earthly Faces.'