If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.
If wishes would prevail with me, my purpose should not fail with me.
what cannot be saved when fate takes, patience her injury a mockery makes
A little fire is quickly trodden out, Which, being suffer'd, rivers cannot quench.
My stars shine darkly over me
My love is thine to teach; teach it but how, And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn. Any hard lesson that may do thee good.