Love Built On Beauty, Soon As Beauty,

Can There Be Worse Sickness, Than To Know That We Are Never Well, Nor Can Be So?

Other Men's Crosses Are Not My Crosses.

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.

Oft From New Truths, And New Phrase, New Doubts Grow, As Strange Attire Aliens The Men We Know.

When I Died Last, And, Dear, I Die As Often As From Thee I Go Though It Be But An Hour Ago, And Lovers' Hours Be Full Eternity.