Love is no true-made looking-glass Which perfect yields the shape we bring; It ugly shows us all that was, And flatters every future thing. - Fulke Greville, 1st Baron Brooke

Oh wearisome Condition of Humanity! Born under one law, to another bound: Vainly begot and yet forbidden vanity, Created sick, commanded to be sound: What meaneth Nature by these diverse laws? Passion and reason, self-division cause. Is it the mark, or Majesty of Power To make offences that it may forgive?

Three things there be in man's opinion dear, Fame, many friends, and fortune's dignities: False visions all, which in our sense appear, To sanctify desire's idolatry.

Hard-hearted minds relent and rigor's tears abound, And envy strangely rues his end, in whom no fault was found. Knowledge her light hath lost, valor hath slain her knight, Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the world's delight.