'Tis now the summer of your youth: time has not cropped the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them.
I am rich beyond the dreams of avarice.
Beauty has wings, and too hastily flies, and love, unrewarded, soon sickens and dies.
But from the hoop's bewitching round, Her very shoe has power to wound.
Honesty needs no pains to set itself off.
The hours I spend with you I look upon as sort of a perfumed garden, a dim twilight, and a fountain singing to it. You and you alone make me feel that I am alive. Other men it is said have seen angels, but I have seen thee and thou art enough.