Thy lips which spake wrong counsel, I kiss close.

First time he kiss'd me, he but only kiss'd The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And ever since it grew more clean and white.

I was betrothed that day; I wore a troth kiss on my lips I could not give away.

World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

For tis not in mere death that men die most.

The beautiful seems right by force of beauty and the feeble wrong because of weakness.