Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers play, Yet long by the absence of the day.

In love's field was never found A nobler weapon than a wound.

A pillow for thee will I bring,Stuffed with down of angel's wing.

And I, what is my crime I cannot tell, Unless it be a crime to haue lou'd too well.

All thy old woes shall now smile on thee, and thy pains sit bright on thee. All thy sorrows here shall shine and thy sufferings be divine Tears shall take comfort and turn to gems and wrongs repent to diadems Even thy deaths shall live and new dress the soul that once they slew.

Hark! She is called, the parting hour is come. Take thy farewell, poor world! Heaven must go home. . . .

Locked up from mortal eye in shady leaves of destiny.

And when life's sweet fable ends, soul and body part like friends no quarrels, murmurs, no delay a kiss, a sigh, and so away.

Eyes are vocal, tears have tongues, And there be words not made with lungs.

Two went to pray? Better to say one went to brag, the other to pray.

A happy soul, that all the way To heaven hath a summer's day.