Kind Pity Chokes My Spleen.

Dull Sublunary Lovers' Love (whose Soul Is Sense) Cannot Admit Absence, Because It Doth Remove Those Things Which Elemented It.

Sweetest Love, I Do Not Go, For Weariness Of Thee, Nor In Hope The World Can Show A Fitter Love For Me; But Since That I Must Die At Last, 'tis Best, To Use My Self In Jest Thus By Feign'd Deaths To Die.

That Thou Remember Them, Some Claim As Debt; I Think It Mercy, If Thou Wilt Forget.

All Occasions Invite His Mercies, And All Times Are His Seasons.

I Find No Abhorring In My Appetite.