Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; And every little absence is an age

Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; every little absence is an age.

What, start at this! when sixty years have spread Their grey experience o'er thy hoary head? Is this the all observing age could gain? Or hast thou known the worl so long in vain?

Love is love's reward.

I'm a little wounded but I'm not slain; I will lay me down for to bleed awhile, Then I'll rise and fight with you again

And love's the noblest frailty of the mind.