Then Love-devouring Death Do What He Dare.

Poor Wretches That Depend On Greatness' Favor, Dream As I Have Done; Wake, And Find Nothing.

The Tartness Of His Face Sours Ripe Grapes.

Great Griefs Medicine The Less.

Scratching Could Not Make It Worse, An't Were Such A Face As Yours Were.

For I Have Sworn Thee Fair, And Thought Thee Bright, Who Art As Black As Hell, As Dark As Night.