Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.

O, if thou car'st not whom I love alas, thou lov'st not me.

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we lov'd?

Love is a growing, or full constant light; And his first minute, after noon, is night.

Dull sublunary lovers' love (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it.

And dare love that, and say so too, And forget the He and She.

For I am every dead thing In whom love wrought new alchemy For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness He ruined me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.

But he who loveliness within Hath found, all outward loathes, For he who color loves, and skin, Loves but their oldest clothes.

Sweetest love, I do not go, For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me; But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best, To use my self in jest Thus by feign'd deaths to die.