A man is always afraid of a woman that loves him too much
Who friendship with a knave hath made, Is judged a partner in the trade.
Is there no hope? the sick man said, The silent doctor shook his head, And took his leave with signs of sorrow, Despairing of his fee to-morrow.
My lodging is on the cold ground, And hard, very hard, is my fare, But that which grieves me more Is the coldness of my dear.
Sure men were born to lie, and women to believe them!
One common fate we both must prove; You die with envy, I with love.