My Falcon Now Is Sharp

Speak Of Me As I Am. Nothing Extenuate, Nor Set Down Aught In Malice.

Hanging And Wiving Goes By Destiny.

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.

If Ever Thou Shalt Love, In The Sweet Pangs Of It Remember Me; For Such As I Am All True Lovers Are, Unstaid And Skittish In All Motions Else Save In The Constant Image Of The Creature That Is Beloved.

O Mistress Mine, Where Are You Roaming? O, Stay And Hear; Your True Love's Coming, That Can Sing Both High And Low: Trip No Further, Pretty Sweeting; Journeys End In Lovers Meeting, Every Wise Man's Son Doth Know. What Is Love? 'tis Not Hereafter; Present Mirth Hath Present Laughter; What's To Come Is Still Unsure: In Delay There Lies Not Plenty; Then, Come Kiss Me, Sweet And Twenty, Youth's A Stuff Will Not Endure.