For Love, Thou Know'st, Is

You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

We Will All Laugh At Gilded Butterflies.

Women Are Angels, Wooing: Things Won Are Done; Joy's Soul Lies In The Doing: That She Beloved Knows Naught, That Knows Not This-- Men Prize The Thing Ungained More Than It Is.

Love Is Not Love That Alters When It Alteration Finds.

The Spirit Of A Youth That Means To Be Of Note, Begins Betimes.