O, Teach Me How You

I Wasted Time, And Now Doth Time Waste Me.

For A Noble Heart, The Most Precious Gift Becomes Poor, When The Giver Stops Loving.

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

The Violence Of Either Grief Or Joy, Their Own Enactures With Themselves Destroy.