All Is Well Ended If This Suit

One Pain Is Cured By Another. Catch Some New Infection In Your Eye And The Poison Of The Old One Would Die.

Are There No Stones In Heaven But What Serves For Thunder?

Lilies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.

What Is Your Substance, Whereof Are You Made, That Millions Of Strange Shadows On You Tend? Since Everyone Hath Every One, One Shade, And You, But One, Can Every Shadow Lend. Describe Adonis, And The Counterfeit Is Poorly Imitated After You. On Helen’s Cheek All Art Of Beauty Set, And You In Grecian Tires Are Painted New. Speak Of The Spring And Foison Of The Year; The One Doth Shadow Of Your Beauty Show, The Other As Your Bounty Doth Appear, And You In Every Blessèd Shape We Know. In All External Grace You Have Some Part, But You Like None, None You, For Constant Heart.

Our Remedies Oft In Ourselves Do Lie, Which We Ascribe To Heaven.