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

The sweetest joy, the wildest woe is love.

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.

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.