Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!

O' thinkest thou we shall ever meet again? I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our times to come.

For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy

When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.

Here's flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.

Is this the generation of love? Hot blood, hot thoughts and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers. Is love a generation of vipers?

Wise men never sit and wail their loss, but cheerily seek how to redress their harms.