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.
Away with you, water, destruction of wine!
Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then a thousand more.
So a maiden, whilst she remains untouched, so long is she dear to her own; when she has lost her chaste flower with sullied body, she remains neither lovely to boys nor dear to girls.
But you shall not escape my iambics.
The vows that woman makes to her fond lover are only fit to be written on air or on the swiftly passing stream.