When I was from Cupid's passions free, my Muse was mute and wrote no elegy.
That fair face will as years roll on lose its beauty, and old age will bring its wrinkles to the brow.
Love is a believing creature.
Very slight violence will break that which has once been cracked.
Love is an affair of credulity.
I hate a woman who offers herself because she ought to do so, and cold and dry thinks of her sewing when making love.