We will all laugh at gilded butterflies.

She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.

The wildest hath not such a heart as you. Run when you will, the story shall be changed: Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase; The dove pursues the griffin; the mild hind Makes speed to catch the tiger; bootless speed, When cowardice pursues and valour flies.

They do not love that do not show their love.

Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.

So. Lie there, my art.

Preferred three hours quicker over one moment late.