Tis In My Memory Lock'd, And You

She Dreams Of Him That Has Forgot Her Love; You Dote On Her That Cares Not For Your Love. 'tis Pity Love Should Be So Contrary; And Thinking Of It Makes Me Cry 'alas!

Though Now This Grained Face Of Mine Be Hid In Sap-consuming Winter's Drizzled Snow, And All The Conduits Of My Blood Froze Up, Yet Hath My Night Of Life Some Memory, My Wasting Lamps Some Fading Glimmer Left, My Dull Deaf Ears A Little Use To Hear.

Your Cause Of Sorrow Must Not Be Measured By His Worth, For Then It Hath No End.

To Saucy Doubts And Fears.

O, She's Warm! If This Be Magic, Let It Be An Art Lawful As Eating.