Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.

A rarer spirit never Did steer humanity; but you gods will give us Some faults to make us men.

Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror

A nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.

The painful warrior famous for fight, After a thousand victories, once foil'd, Is from the books of honor razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd

Good morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, All in the morn betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your valentine.

You are not wood, you are not stones, but men.