When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.

O, spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!

Who soars too near the sun, with golden wings, melts them.

Ay, when fowls have no feathers and fish have no fin.

For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.

Thou art a Castilian King urinal!

Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.