The head is not more native to the heart.

Foul whisp'rings are abroad.

Love is like a child, That longs for everything it can come by

Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man: today he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, tomorrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And - when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening - nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.

For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?

One sees more devils than vast hell can hold

For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.