O subtle love! a thousand wiles thou hast, by humble suit, by service, or by hire, to win a maiden's hold,--a thing soon done, for nature framed all women to be won.
Lost is the time that you don't spend for love.
Love is when he gives you a piece of your soul, that you never knew was missing.
Virtue's guard is labor; ease, her sleep.
None merits the name of Creator but God and the poet.
He, full of bashfulness and truth, loved much, hoped little, and desired naught.