In night when colours all to black are cast, Distinction lost, or gone down with the light; The eye — a watch to inward senses placed, Not seeing, ye… - Fulke Greville, 1st Baron Brooke

Now rime, the son of rage, which art no kin to skill, And endless grief, which deads my life, yet knows not how to kill, Go seek that hapless tomb, which if ye hap to find, Salute the stones that keep the bones that held so good a mind.

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.

If Nature did not take delight in blood, She would have made more easy ways to good. We that are bound by vows and by promotion, With pomp of holy sacrifice and rites, To teach belief in good and still devotion, To preach of heaven's wonders and delights — Yet, when each of us in his own heart looks, He finds the God there far unlike his books.