Scorn, At First, Makes After-love The More.

I Have Full Cause Of Weeping, But This Heart Shall Break Into A Hundred Thousand Flaws Or Ere I'll Weep.

And What Art Thou, Thou Idol Ceremony? What Kind Of God Art Thou, That Suffer'st More Of Mortal Griefs Than Do Thy Worshippers?

All Pride Is Willing Pride.

Stars Hide Your Fires; Let Not Light See My Black And Deep Desires: The Eyes Wink At The Hand; Yet Let That Be Which The Eye Fears, When It Is Done, To See

A Heaven On Earth I Have Won By Wooing Thee.