no words can that woe sound. Where is my son-in-law, death is as boundless as the air, And more inconstant than the sun’s beams, Driving back shadows over lowering hills: Therefore do nimble-pinion’d doves draw love, And therefore have I little talk’d of love; O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on fees; O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream, Which oft the