I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.

I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.

Thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, / In some melodious plot / of beechen green, and shadows numberless, / Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

He's pitched three days in a row so he won't be in there.

Love is my religion - I could die for it.

Away with old Romance! Away with novels, plots and plays of foreign courts; Away with love-verses, sugar'd in rhyme, the intrigues, amours of idlers; Fitted for only banquets of the night where dancers to late music slide; The unhealthy pleasures, ex