Take and keep my fifty poems finished;
Where my heart lies, let my brain lie also!
Poor the speech; be how I speak, for all things.
“Not but that you know me! Lo, the moon’s self!
Here in London, yonder late in Florence.
Still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured.
·····
What, there’s nothing in the moon noteworthy?
Nay—for if that moon could love a mortal,
Use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy)