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

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

Ah, what is more blessed than to put cares away, when the mind lays by its burden, and tired with labor of far travel we have come to our own home and rest on the couch we longed for? This it is which alone is worth all these toils.

But you shall not escape my iambics.

What a woman says to an eager lover, write it on running water, write it on air.

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

What women say to lovers, you'll agree, One writes on running water or on air.