The Error Of Our Eye Directs Our

None Can Cure Their Harms By Wailing Them.

All Things That Are, Are With More Spirit Chased Than Enjoyed.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still For That Which Longer Nurseth The Disease, Feeding On That Which Doth Preserve The Ill, Th' Uncertain Sickly Appetite To Please. My Reason, The Physician To My Love, Angry That His Prescriptions Are Not Kept, Hath Left Me, And I Desperate Now Approve Desire Is Death, Which Physic Did Except.

What Power Is It Which Mounts My Love So High, That Makes Me See, And Cannot Feed Mine Eye

But, Soft! What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks? It Is The East, And Juliet Is The Sun.