The Error Of Our Eye Directs Our

Never Anger Made Good Guard For Itself.

She Never Told Her Love, But Let Concealment, Like A Worm 'i Th' Bud, Feed On Her Damask Cheek. She Pinned In Thought; And, With A Green And Yellow Melancholy, She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief. Was Not This Love Indeed? We Men May Say More, Swear More; But Indeed Our Shows Are More Than Will; For We Still Prove Much In Our Vows But Little In Our Love.

A Very Little Little Let Us Do And All Is Done.

He's Loved Of The Distracted Multitude, Who Like Not In Their Judgement, But Their Eyes.

And It Is Very Much Lamented,... That You Have No Such Mirrors As Will Turn Your Hidden Worthiness Into Your Eye That You Might See Your Shadow.