Heaven Take My Soul, And England Keep

All Love's Pleasure Shall Not Match Its Woe.

Go, Write It In A Martial Hand; Be Curst And Brief; It Is No Matter How Witty, So It Be Eloquent And Fun Of Invention: Taunt Him With The Licence Of Ink: If Thou Thou'st Him Some Thrice, It Shall Not Be Amiss; And As Many Lies As Will Lie In Thy Shee.

Every Fair From Fair Sometime Declines

Weep Not, Sweet Queen, For Trickling Tears Are Vain.

The Man That Hath No Music In Himself, Nor Is Not Moved With Concord Of Sweet Sounds, Is Fit For Treasons, Stratagems And Spoils.