Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.

For a noble heart, the most precious gift becomes poor, when the giver stops loving.

Love denied blights the soul we owe to God.

Though music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm.

Alas, our frailty is the cause , not we! For, such as we are made of, such we be.

Who can be patient in extremes?

I was a coward on instinct.