These times of woe afford no time to woo.

It were a grief so brief to part with thee.
Farewell.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs, Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes, Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers' tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall and a preserving sweet.

thus with a kiss I die

Ay me! sad hours seem long.