It Is Thyself, Mine Own Self's Better

Short Time Seems Long In Sorrow's Sharp Sustaining.

These Are The Forgeries Of Jealousy; And Never, Since The Middle Summer's Spring, Met We On Hill, In Dale, Forest, Or Mead, By Paved Fountain Or By Rushy Brook, Or In The Beached Margent Of The Sea, To Dance Our Ringlets To The Whistling Wind, But With Thy Brawls Thou Hast Disturbed Our Sport.

Do Not Swear By The Moon, For She Changes Constantly. Then Your Love Would Also Change.

We Must Every One Be A Man Of His Own Fancy.

O, Then, What Graces In My Love Do Dwell, That He Hath Turn'd A Heaven Unto Hell