O, I Do Not Like That Paying

The Very Firstlings Of My Heart Shall Be The Firstlings Of My Hand.

Now Old Desire Doth In His Deathbed Lie, And Young Affection Gapes To Be His Heir; That Fair For Which Love Groan'd For And Would Die, With Tender Juliet Match'd, Is Now Not Fair.

I Would We Were All Of One Mind, And One Mind Good.

Hung Be The Heavens With Black! Yield, Day, To Night!

My Love Is Deep; The More I Give To Thee, The More I Have, Both Are Infinite.