There is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
Then move not, while my prayers’ effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purg’d.
O! I am Fortune’s fool.
O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
Not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty.
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite.
Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.
Meagre were his looks, Sharp misery had worn him to the bones.
Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs.
Her immortal part with angels lives.
Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say—good night, till itbe morrow.
