How Great Love Is, Presence Best Trial

I Will Not Look Upon The Quickening Sun, But Straight Her Beauty To My Sense Shall Run; The Air Shall Note Her Soft, The Fire Most Pure; Water Suggest Her Clear, And The Earth Sure; Time Shall Not Lose Our Passages.

I Wonder By My Troth, What Thou, And I Did, Till We Loved? Were We Not Weaned Till Then? But Sucked On Country Pleasures, Childishly? Or Snorted We In The Seven Sleepers' Den?

Who Knows His Virtues Name Or Place, Hath None.

And Swear No Where Lives A Woman True, And Fair.

Since You Would Save None Of Me, I Bury Some Of You.