I Will Despair, And Be At Enmity

Because It Is A Customary Cross, As Die To Love As Thoughts, And Dreams, And Sighs, Wishes, And Tears, Poor Fancy's Followers.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still.

Now, My Co-mates And Brothers In Exile, Hath Not Old Custom Made This Life More Sweet Than That Of Painted Pomp? Are Not These Woods More Free From Peril Than The Envious Court?

Well, Every One Can Master A Grief But He That Has It.

Extremity Is The Trier Of Spirits.