'tis Brief, My Lord...as Woman's Love.

When My Love Swears That She Is Made Of Truth, I Do Believe Her, Though I Know She Lies.

We, Ignorant Of Ourselves, Beg Often Our Own Harms, Which The Wise Powers Deny Us For Our Good; So Find We Profit By Losing Of Our Prayers.

She Is Mine Own, And I As Rich In Having Such A Jewel As Twenty Seas, If All Their Sand Were Pearl, The Water Nectar, And The Rocks Pure Gold.

O, Then, What Graces In My Love Do Dwell, That He Hath Turn'd A Heaven Unto Hell

Would It Not Grieve A Woman To Be Over-mastered By A Piece Of Valiant Dust? To Make An Account Of Her Life To A Clod Of Wayward Marle?