I Heard A Bird So Sing, Whose

We Do Not Keep The Outward Form Of Order, Where There Is Deep Disorder In The Mind.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still For That Which Longer Nurseth The Disease, Feeding On That Which Doth Preserve The Ill, Th' Uncertain Sickly Appetite To Please. My Reason, The Physician To My Love, Angry That His Prescriptions Are Not Kept, Hath Left Me, And I Desperate Now Approve Desire Is Death, Which Physic Did Except.

That Man That Hath A Tongue, I Say Is No Man, If With His Tongue He Cannot Win A Woman.

What? Do I Love Her, That I Desire To Hear Her Speak Again, And Feast Upon Her Eyes

For It Falls Out That What We Have We Prize Not To The Worth Whiles We Enjoy It, But Being Lacked And Lost, Why, Then We Rack The Value, Then We Find The Virtue That Possession Would Not Show Us While It Was Ours.