Proper Deformity Shows Not In The Fiend

I May Command Where I Adore.

Absence Doth Sharpen Love, Presence Strengthens It; The One Brings Fuel, The Other Blows It Till It Burns Clear.

Lay Not That Flattering Unction To Your Soul, That Not Your Trespass But My Madness Speaks.

What's His Offense? Groping For Trout In A Peculiar River.

Orpheus With His Lute Made Trees, And The Mountain Tops That Freeze, Bow Themselves, When He Did Sing; To His Music, Plants And Flowers Ever Sprung; As Sun And Showers There Had Made A Lasting Spring. Every Thing That Heard Him Play, Even The Billows Of The Sea, Hung Their Heads, And Then Lay By. In Sweet Music Is Such Art, Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.