Till All Grace Be In One Woman,

Now Let It Work. Mischief, Thou Art Afoot. Take Thou What Course Thou Wilt.

Yet Mark'd I Where The Bolt Of Cupid Fell: It Fell Upon A Little Western Flower, Before Milk-white, Now Purple With Love's Wound, And Maidens Call It Love-in-idleness.

Constant You Are, But Yet A Woman; And For Secrecy, No Lady Closer; For I Well Believe Thou Wilt Not Utter What Thou Dost Not Know.

My Affection Hath An Unknown Bottom, Like The Bay Of Portugal.

What Is Thy Sentence Then But Speechless Death.