journeys
may the
sun and
moon Make
us again
count o'er
ere love
be done!
But, woe
is me, you
are so
sick of
late, So
far from
cheer and
from your
former
state,
That I
distrust
you. Yet,
though I
distrust,
Discomfort
you, my
lord, it
nothing
must: For
women's
fear and
love holds
quantity;In
neither
aught, or
in
extremity.
Now, what
my love
is, proof
hath made
you
know;And
as my love
is sized,
my fear is
so: Where
love is
great, the
littlest
doubts are
