But love, like wine, gives a tumultuous bliss, Heighten'd indeed beyond all mortal pleasures; But mingles pangs and madness in the bowl.
To know the world, not love her, is thy point; She gives but little, nor that little, long.
Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes; They love a train, they tread each other's heel.
Pity swells the tide of love.
Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.