Lowly, with a broken neck, The crocus lays her cheek to mire.
The most dire disaster in love is the death of imagination.
The man who has no mind of his own lends it to the priests.
A woman who is not quite a fool will forgive your being but a man, if you are surely that. . .
Not till the fire is dying in the grate, Look we for any kinship with the stars. Oh, wisdom never comes when it is gold, And the great price we paid for it full worth: We have it only when we are half earth. Little avails that coinage to the old!
Prepare, You lovers, to know Love a thing of moods: Not like hard life, of laws.