O horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee!

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.

That's a valiant flea that dares eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion.

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.

When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo; O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.

O for a horse with wings!