Let the galled jade wince; our withers are unwrung.
Though music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm.
I love thee, and it is my love that speaks
Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear
I have lov'd her ever since I saw her; and still I see her beautiful
Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good; a shining gloss that fadeth suddenly; a flower that dies when it begins to bud; a doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.