As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.

So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

For grief is crowned with consolation.

Plenty and peace breed cowards; hardness ever of hardiness is mother.

It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

I will make thee think thy swan a crow.

No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity.