To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, Such seems your beauty still.

Proper deformity shows not in the fiend So horrid as in woman.

Happy thou art not; for what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get; and what thou hast, forgettest.

Women may fall when there's no strength in men.

My friends were poor, but honest, so's my love.

Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim, When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid!

Scorn, at first, makes after-love the more.