While we lie tumbling in the hay.

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

Die for adultery! No: The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight

Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight

We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.

Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.

A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.