How Now, Wit! Whither Wander You?

This Goodly Frame, The Earth, Seems To Me A Sterile Promontory.

For Thou Hast Given Me In This Beauteous Face A World Of Earthly Blessings To My Soul, If Sympathy Of Love Unite Our Thoughts.

Under The Colour Of Commending Him I Have Access My Own Love To Prefer; But Silvia Is Too Fair, Too True, Too Holy, To Be Corrupted With My Worthless Gifts.

As Full Of Spirit As The Month Of May, And As Gorgeous As The Sun In Midsummer.

There's Nothing In This World Can Make Me Joy.