O Love, Be Moderate, Allay Thy Ecstasy,

Thine Eyes I Love, And They As Pitying Me, Knowing Thy Heart Torment Me With Disdain, Have Put On Black, And Loving Mourners Be, Looking With Pretty Ruth Upon My Pain.

She Shall Scant Show Well That Now Shows Best.

So Well Thy Words Become Thee As Thy Wounds.

The Brain May Devise Laws For The Blood, But A Hot Temper Leaps O'er A Cold Decree.

Love's Heralds Should Be Thoughts, Which Ten Times Faster Glide Than The Sun's Beams Driving Back Shadows Over Low'ring Hills. Therefore Do Nimble-pinioned Doves Draw Love, And Therefore Hath The Wind-swift Cupid Wings.