You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame
In thy youth wast as true a lover, As ever sighed upon a midnight pillow
I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster
Oh, how this spring of love resembleth, The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all beauty of the Sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away
Love hath made thee a tame snake
Lovers can do their amorous rites by their own beauties
Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight
What is light, if Sylvia be not seen? What is joy if Sylvia be not by?
There's beggary in love that can be reckoned