Patch grief with proverbs.

I had rather live with cheese and garlic in a windmill.

Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.

I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise.

I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursued my humor not pursuing his, And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade.

Oh, flatter me; for love delights in praises.