By Heaven, I Love Thee Better Than

There Is Plenty Of Time To Sleep In The Grave

But Thy Eternal Summer Shall Not Fade.

Come, Lady, Die To Live.

Conceit, More Rich In Matter Than In Words, Brags Of His Substance, Not Of Ornament: They Are But Beggars That Can Count Their Worth; But My True Love Is Grown To Such Excess, I Cannot Sum Up Half My Sum Of Wealth.

What Made Me Love Thee? Let That Persuade Thee, There's Something Extraordinary In Thee