My love admits no qualifying dross
You told a lie, an odious damned lie; Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie.
We will have rings and things and fine array
O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.
She is a woman, therefore to be won.
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.