O tiger's heart wrapped in a woman's hide!
Let the galled jade wince; our withers are unwrung.
I love thee, I love thee with a love that shall not die. Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.
Of chastity, the ornaments are chaste.
The art of our necessities is strange That can make vile things precious.
Your cause of sorrow must not be measured by his worth, for then it hath no end.