In Scorn Of Nature, Art Gave Lifeless

Tis An Ill Cook That Cannot Lick His Own Fingers.

Love Is Blind, It Stops Lovers Seeing The Silly Things They Do.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still For That Which Longer Nurseth The Disease, Feeding On That Which Doth Preserve The Ill, Th' Uncertain Sickly Appetite To Please. My Reason, The Physician To My Love, Angry That His Prescriptions Are Not Kept, Hath Left Me, And I Desperate Now Approve Desire Is Death, Which Physic Did Except.

So Loving To My Mother, That He Might Not Beteem The Winds Of Heaven, Visit Her Face' Too Roughly.

In Sooth I Know Not Why I Am So Sad. It Wearies Me, You Say It Wearies You; But How I Caught It, Found It, Or Came By It, What Stuff 'tis Made Of, Whereof It Is Born, I Am To Learn.