Let Those That Merely Talk And Never

Nor Shall Our Cups Make Any Guilty Men; But At Our Parting, We Will Be, As When We Innocently Met.

Give Me A Look, Give Me A Face, That Makes Simplicity A Grace Robes Loosely Flowing, Hair As Free Such Sweet Neglect More Taketh Me Than All The Adulteries Of Art: They Strike Mine Eyes, But Not My Heart.

A New Disease? I Know Not, New Or Old, But It May Well Be Called Poor Mortals Plague For, Like A Pestilence, It Doth Infect The Houses Of The Brain Till Not A Thought, Or Motion, In The Mind, Be Free From The Black Poison Of Suspect.

Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes, And I Will Pledge With Mine; Or Leave A Kiss But In The Cup And I'll Not Look For Wine.

If I Freely May Discover What Should Please Me In My Lover, I Would Have Her Fair And Witty, Savouring More Of Court Than City; A Little Proud, But Full Of Pity; Light And Humorous In Her Toying, Oft Building Hopes, And Soon Destroying, Long, But Sweet In The Enjoying; Neither Too Easy Nor To Hard; All Extremes I Would Have Barr'd.