Whose Heart The Accustom'd Sight

But Thou, Contracted To Thine Own Bright Eyes, Feed'st Thy Light's Flame With Self-substantial Fuel, Making A Famine Where Abundance Lies, Thyself Thy Foe, To Thy Sweet Self Too Cruel.

Who Are The Violets Now That Strew The Lap Of The New-come Spring?

That God Forbid, That Made Me First Your Slave, I Should In Thought Control Your Times Of Pleasure, Or At Your Hand Th' Account Of Hours To Crave, Being Your Vassal Bound To Stay Your Leisure.

Hasty Marriage Seldom Proveth Well.

Suspicion Always Haunts The Guilty Mind.