I cannot love as I have loved, And yet I know not why; It is the one great woe of life To feel all feeling die.

The sweetest joy, the wildest woe is love.

The fate of love is that it always seems too little or too much.

Could I love less, I should be happier now.

Love spends his all, and still hath store.

Ask not of me, love, what is love? Ask what is good of God above; Ask of the great sum what is light; Ask what is darkness of the night; Ask sin of what may be forgiven; Ask what is happiness of heaven; Ask what is folly of the crowd; Ask what is fashion of the shroud; Ask what is sweetness of thy kiss; Ask of thyself what beauty is.