You Had Measured How Long A Fool

Arise, Fair Sun, And Kill The Envious Moon, Who Is Already Sick And Pale With Grief That Thou, Her Maid, Art Far More Fair Than She. . . .

Tis Safter To Be That Which We Destroy Than By Destruction Dwell In Doubtful Joy.

Silence Is The Perfectest Herault Of Joy. I Were But Little Happy If I Could Say How Much.

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?

So May The Outward Shows Be Least Themselves: The World Is Still Deceived With Ornament. In Law, What Plea So Tainted And Corrupt, But, Being Seasoned With A Gracious Voice, Obscures The Show Of Evil? In Religion, What Damned Error, But Some Sober Brow Will Bless It And Approve It With A Text, Hiding The Grossness With Fair Ornament? There Is No Vice So Simple But Assumes Some Mark Of Virtue On His Outward Parts.