Nature Hath No Goal Though She Hath

Whoever Loves, If He Do Not Propose The Right True End Of Love, He's One That Goes To Sea For Nothing But To Make Him Sick.

To Rage, To Lust, To Write To, To Commend, All Is The Purlieu Of The God Of Love.

Busy Old Fool, Unruly Sun, Why Dost Thou Thus Through Windows And Through Curtains Call On Us? Must To Thy Motions Lovers Seasons Run?

I Am Two Fools, I Know, For Loving, And For Saying So.

But He Who Loveliness Within Hath Found, All Outward Loathes, For He Who Color Loves, And Skin, Loves But Their Oldest Clothes.