Love fed fat soon turns to boredom.
Imperceptibly the hours glide on, and beguile us as they pass.
Good hope is often beguiled by her own augury.
What is now an act of reason, was but blind impulse.
Ah me! love can not be cured by herbs.
She only is chaste, who is chaste where there is no danger of detection: she who does not, because she may not, does.