Love Does Not See With The Eyes,

Conceit, More Rich In Matter Than In Words, Brags Of His Substance, Not Of Ornament: They Are But Beggars That Can Count Their Worth; But My True Love Is Grown To Such Excess, I Cannot Sum Up Half My Sum Of Wealth.

How Much Salt Water Thrown Away In Waste/ To Season Love, That Of It Doth Not Taste.

My Pride Fell With My Fortunes.

Dost Thou Love Hawking? Thou Hast Hawks Will Soar Above The Morning Lark.

We Will Have Rings And Things And Fine Array