O, spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!
But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
Women are as roses, whose fair flower, being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.
Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.
A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burdened with light weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain.