The Truest Poetry Is The Most Feigning.

O Comfort-killing Night, Image Of Hell, Dim Register And Notary Of Shame, Black Stage For Tragedies And Murders Fell, Vast Sin-concealing Chaos, Nurse Of Blame!

Once More Unto The Breach, Dear Friends, Once More; Or Close The Wall With Our English Dead.

Love Is A Smoke Raised With The Fume Of Sighs; Being Purged, A Fire Sparkling In Lovers' Eyes; Being Vexed, A Sea Nourished With Loving Tears. What Is It Else? A Madness Most Discreet, A Choking Gall, And A Preserving Sweet. *here’s What Love Is: A Smoke Made Out Of Lovers' Sighs. When The Smoke Clears, Love Is A Fire Burning In Your Lover’s Eyes. If You Frustrate Love, You Get An Ocean Made Out Of Lovers' Tears. What Else Is Love? It’s A Wise Form Of Madness. It’s A Sweet Lozenge That You Choke On.*

. . . It Is Impossible You Should Take True Root But By The Fair Weather That You Make Yourself It Is Needful That You Frame The Season Of Your Own Harvest.

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.