Love Is Merely A Madness.

Fair Ladies, Masked, Are Roses In Their Bud; Dismasked, The Damask Sweet Commixture Shown, Are Angels Vailing Clouds, Or Roses Blown.

All Things That We Ordained Festival Turn From Their Office To Black Funeral-- Our Instruments To Melancholy Bells, Our Wedding Cheer To A Sad Burial Feast; Our Solemn Hymns To Sullen Dirges Change; Our Bridal Flowers Serve For A Buried Corse; And All Things Change Them To The Contrary.

When The Mind's Free, The Body's Delicate.

Sin Will Pluck On Sin.

Under The Colour Of Commending Him I Have Access My Own Love To Prefer; But Silvia Is Too Fair, Too True, Too Holy, To Be Corrupted With My Worthless Gifts.