It Provokes The Desire, But It Takes

She Never Told Her Love, But Let Concealment, Like A Worm 'i Th' Bud, Feed On Her Damask Cheek. She Pinned In Thought; And, With A Green And Yellow Melancholy, She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief. Was Not This Love Indeed? We Men May Say More, Swear More; But Indeed Our Shows Are More Than Will; For We Still Prove Much In Our Vows But Little In Our Love.

What E'er You Are That In This Desert Inaccessible, Under The Shade Of Melancholy Boughs, Lose And Neglect The Creeping Hours Of Time.

For Mine Own Part, It Was Greek To Me.

As Love Is Full Of Unbefitting Strains, All Wanton As A Child, Skipping And Vain, Form'd By The Eye And Therefore, Like The Eye, Full Of Strange Shapes, Of Habits And Of Forms, Varying In Subjects As The Eye Doth Roll To Every Varied Object In His Glance

So, You Are Very Welcome To Our House. It Must Appear In Other Ways Than Words, Therefore, I Scant This Breathing Courtesy.