Glory Grows Guilty Of Detested Crimes.

For Sorrow Ends Not, When It Seemeth Done.

Love, Which Teacheth Me That Thou And I Am One

O, She's Warm! If This Be Magic, Let It Be An Art Lawful As Eating.

If Love Be Blind, It Best Agrees With Night

One Whom The Music Of His Own Vain Tongue Doth Ravish Like Enchanting Harmony.