The course of true love never did run smooth.
The expedition of my violent love outrun the pauser, reason.
To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need, and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars.
Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly.
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.