Kind Pity Chokes My Spleen.

Sweetest Love, I Do Not Go, For Weariness Of Thee, Nor In Hope The World Can Show A Fitter Love For Me; But Since That I Must Die At Last, 'tis Best, To Use My Self In Jest Thus By Feign'd Deaths To Die.

Without Outward Declarations, Who Can Conclude An Inward Love?

. . . Change Is The Nursery Of Musicke, Joy, Life And Eternity.

And Swear No Where Lives A Woman True, And Fair.

Send Home My Long Strayed Eyes To Me, Which (oh) Too Long Have Dwelt On Thee.