The joy of love is too short, and the sorrow thereof, and what cometh thereof, dureth over long.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind.

Ah me! love can not be cured by herbs.

Love is the silent saying and saying of a single name.

And now good morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room, an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.