There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger.
And all my mother came into mine eyes And gave me up to tears.
We bring forth weeds when our quick minds lie still.
She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.
Too nice, and yet too true!
What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.