Then Hate Me When Thou Wilt, If

That We Would Do We Should Do When We Would, For This 'would' Changes, And Hath Abatements And Delays As Many As There Are Tongues, Are Hands, Are Accidents, And Then This 'should' Is Like A Spendthrift Sigh, That Hurts By Easing.

Where Love Is Great, The Littlest Doubts Are Fear; Where Little Fears Grow Great, Great Love Grows There.

Be Wise As Thou Art Cruel, Do Not Press My Tongue-tied Patience With Too Much Disdain: Lest Sorrow Lend Me Words And Words Express, The Manner Of My Pity-wanting Pain.

The Stroke Of Death Is As A Lover's Pinch, Which Hurts And Is Desired.

How Poor Are They That Have Not Patience! What Wound Did Ever Heal But By Degrees?