Good morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, All in the morn betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your valentine.

Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.

For you and I are past our dancing days.

Many that are not mad have, sure, more lack of reason.

How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!

But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.

So wise so young, they say, do never live long.