Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, where manners ne'er were preached.

Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.

How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping?

These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume

Though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor stands in worse case of woe

Pardon's the word to all.

Gently to hear, kindly to judge.