My Love's More Richer Than My Tongue.

Therefore The Moon, The Governess Of Floods, Pale In Her Anger Washes All The Air, That Rheumatic Diseases Do Abound; And Through This Distemperature We See The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.

If Ever Thou Shalt Love, In The Sweet Pangs Of It Remember Me; For Such As I Am All True Lovers Are, Unstaid And Skittish In All Motions Else Save In The Constant Image Of The Creature That Is Beloved.

Why Should We Rise Because 'tis Light? Did We Lie Down Because T'was Night?

If They Love They Know Not Why, They Hate Upon No Better Ground, They Hate Upon No Better A Ground

Madness In Great Ones Must Not Unwatched Go.