So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
In solitude, where we are least alone.
Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?.
And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep.
We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.
The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.