Alas that love, so gentle in his view, Should be so tryannous and rough in proof.
Alas that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will! Where shall we dine?-O me. What fray was here? Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. Here's much of do with hate, but more with love. Why then, O brawling love, O loving hate, O anything of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity, Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms, Father of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, Still-waking sleep that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this. Dost thou not laugh?
At thy good heart's oppression.
Why, such is love's transgression. Griefs o mine own lie heavy in my breast, Which thou wilt propagate to have it pressed With more of thine. This love that thou hast shown Doth add more greif to too much of mine own. Love is a smoke made with fume of sights;Being purged, a fire sparking in lovers'eyes;Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
Groan? Why no, Bud sadly tell me who.
A sick man in asdness makes his will- A word ill urged to one that is so ill. In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.