Our souls sit close and silently within,And their own web from their own entrails spin;And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such,That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch. Marriage à la mode (1673)
We lov'd, and we lov'd, as long as we could,Till our love was lov'd out in us both:But our marriage is dead, when the pleasure is fled:'Twas pleasure first made it an oath. Marriage à la mode (1673)