Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.
'Tis brief, my lord...as woman's love.
What's the newest grief? Each minute tunes a new one.
Mercutio: "If love be rough with you, be rough with love.
More of your conversation would infect my brain.