To whom God will, there be the victory.

Never; he will not: Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety: other women cloy The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.

Love asks me no questions, and gives me endless support.

I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools.

I am not in the giving vein today.