So All My Best Is

How Slow This Old Moon Wanes! She Lingers My Desires, Like To A Stepdame, Or A Dowager, Long Withering Out A Young Man's Revenue.

Under The Colour Of Commending Him I Have Access My Own Love To Prefer; But Silvia Is Too Fair, Too True, Too Holy, To Be Corrupted With My Worthless Gifts.

You Cannot Make Gross Sins Look Clear: To Revenge Is No Valour, But To Bear.

Full Many A Glorious Morn I Have Seen Flatter The Mountain-tops With Sovereign Eye, Kissing With Golden Face The Meadows Green, Gilding Pale Streams With Heavenly Alchemy.

Sin, That Amends, Is But Patched With Virtue.