This Most Excellent Canopy, The Air, Look

Speak Comfortable Words.

Good Morrow, Fair Ones; Pray You, If You Know, Where In The Purlieus Of This Forest Stands A Sheep-cote Fenc'd About With Olive Trees?

This Goodly Frame, The Earth, Seems To Me A Sterile Promontory.

Why Should You Think That I Should Woo In Scorn? Scorn And Derision Never Come In Tears: Look, When I Vow, I Weep; And Vows So Born, In Their Nativity All Truth Appears. How Can These Things In Me Seem Scorn To You, Bearing The Badge Of Faith, To Prove Them True?

If Thou Dost Love, Proclaim It Faithfully.