You had measured how long a fool you were upon the ground.
The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining.
Is he on his horse? O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!
The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo.