Oh, this age! How tasteless and ill bred it is!

I hate and I love. And if you ask me how, I do not know: I only feel it, and I am torn in two.

Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then a thousand more.

I hate and love. You ask, perhaps, how can that be? I know not, but I feel the agony.

We see not our own backs.

I write of youth, of love, and have access by these to sing of cleanly wantonness.

I hate and I love, and who can tell me why?