A man in armor is his armor's slave.
Such ever was love's way: to rise, it stoops.
Over my head his arm he flung, Against the world.
Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe, all were for me, in the kiss of one girl.
The best way to excape his ire Is, not to seem too happy.
Then welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand, but go! Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!