My Love Is As A Fever, Longing

Two Stars Keep Not Their Motion In One Sphere.

Their Understanding Begins To Swell And The Approaching Tide Will Shortly Fill The Reasonable Shores That Now Lie Foul And Muddy.

O Powerful Love, That In Some Respects Makes A Beast A Man, In Some Other, A Man A Beast.

The Crow Doth Sing As Sweetly As The Lark When Neither Is Attended; And I Think The Nightingale, If She Should Sing By Day When Every Goose Is Cackling, Would Be Thought No Better A Musician Than The Wren. How Many Thing By Season Seasoned Are To Their Right Praise And True Perfection!

O Judgment ! Thou Art Fled To Brutish Beasts, And Men Have Lost Their Reason !