Love shook my heart/ Like the wind on the mountain/ Troubling the oak-trees
What cannot be said will be wept.
Stars veil their beauty soon / Beside the glorious moon, / When her full silver light / Doth make the whole earth bright.
No honey for me, if it comes with a bee.
Would Jove appoint some flower to reign, in matchless beauty on the plain, the Rose (mankind will all agree). The Rose the queen of flowers should be.
Once again love drives me on, that loosener of limbs, bittersweet creature against which nothing can be done.