My age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.
If ever (as that ever may be near) you meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, then shall you know the wounds invisible that love's keen, arrows make.
It is held that valor is the chiefest virtue, and most dignifies the haver.
The eye sees all, but the mind shows us what we want to see.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
Nor age so eat up my invention.