Relationships and Family

Love is a boy by poets styled; Then spare the rod, and spoil the child.

Love-quarrels oft in pleasing concord end; Not wedlock-treachery.

Yet beauty, though injurious, hath strange power, After offense returning, to regain Love once possess’d.

Skill’d to retire, and in retiring draw Hearts after them tangled in amorous nets.

The evening star, Love’s harbinger.

Our state cannot be sever’d; we are one, One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.

I feel The link of nature draw me: flesh of flesh, Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.

In her face excuse Came prologue, and apology too prompt.

So dear I love him, that with him all deaths I could endure, without him live no life.

Imparadis’d in one another’s arms.

Implied Subjection, but requir’d with gentle sway, And by her yielded, by him best receiv’d, Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet reluctant amorous delay.

The infernal serpent; he it was, whose guile, Stirr’d up with envy and revenge, deceiv’d The mother of mankind.

Of Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste Brought death into the world, and all our woe, With loss of Eden.

It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th’ eclipse, and rigg’d with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat: So I did sit and eat.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not wither’d be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent’st it back to me; Since when it grows and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee.

Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I’ll not look for wine. 2 The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove’s nectar sup, I would not change for thine.

Follow a shadow, it still flies you; Seem to fly it, it will pursue: So court a mistress, she denies you; Let her alone, she will court you.

Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry: For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such, As what he loves may never like too much.

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy! My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy.

There shall be no love lost.

Who ever loves, if he do not propose The right true end of love, he’s one that goes To sea for nothing but to make him sick.

Nature’s lay idiot, I taught thee to love.

Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.