It is an heretic that makes the fire, Not she which burns in't.
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It is an heretic that makes the fire, Not she which burns in't.
Is a nice prison, the world.
Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds or bends with the remover to remove...
'Tis an ever fixed mark that loks on tempests and is never shaken...
Love alters not with his breef hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom...
if this be error and upon me proved, I never writ...
Nor no man ever loved...
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow.
But I am constant as the northern star, of whose true-fixed and resting quality. There is no fellow in the firmament.
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still, and you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
If thou remember'st not the slightest folly that ever love did make thee run into, thou hast not loved.
True love doth not speak.