Excessive sorrow laughs. Excessive joy weeps.
The Sick Rose O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.
Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night.
The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
Better to shun the bait than struggle in the snare.
If you trap the moment before it's ripe, The tears of repentence you'll certainly wipe; But if once you let the ripe moment go You can never wipe off the tears of woe.