Love is when you don't have to be with another person to touch their heart!
Any time not spent on love is wasted.
True love cannot be found where it does not exist, nor can it be denied where it does.
Love is when he gives you a piece of your soul, that you never knew was missing.
None merits the name of Creator but God and the poet.
Perhaps if only once you did enjoy
The thousandth part of all the happiness
A heart beloved enjoys, returning love,
Repentant, you would surely sighing say,
“All time is truly lost and gone
Which is not spent in serving love.”
The day of fortune is like a harvest day, We must be busy when the corn is ripe.
Fortune rarely accompanies anyone to the door.
O subtle love! a thousand wiles thou hast, by humble suit, by service, or by hire, to win a maiden's hold,--a thing soon done, for nature framed all women to be won.
Lost is the time that you don't spend for love.
Then amongst flowers and springs,
Making delightful sport,
Sat lovers without conflict, without flame
Women have tongues of craft, and hearts of guile,
They will, they will not; fools that on them trust;
For in their speech is death, hell in their smile.
[It., Femmina e cosa garrula e fallace:
Vuole e disvuole, e folle uom chi sen fida,
Si tra se volge.]
A fool is he that comes to preach or prate,
When men with swords their right and wrong debate.
[It., Chi conta i colpi e la dovuta offesa,
Mentr' arde la tenzon, misura e pesa?]
O happy, golden age!
Not for that rivers ran
With streams of milk, and honey dropped from trees
Not for no cold did freeze,
Nor any cloud beguile
Th'eternal flowering spring
For when last need to desperation driveth,
Who dareth most he wiseth counsel giveth.
[It., Che spesso avvien che ne' maggior perigli
Son piu audaci gli ottimi consigli.]
Horror itself in that fair scene looks gay,
And joy springs up e'en in the midst of fear.
[It., Bello in si bella vista anco e l'orrore,
E di mezzo la tema esce il diletto.]
They make their fortune who are stout and wise,
Wit rules the heavens, discretion guides the skies.
[Lat., Che sovente addivien che'l saggio e'l forte.
Fabro a se stesso e di beata sorte.]
Virtue's guard is labor; ease, her sleep.
A friend giveth sympathy in trouble.
As shaking terrors from his blazing hair, a sanguine comet gleams through dusky air.
He, full of bashfulness and truth, loved much, hoped little, and desired naught.
It is the fortunate who should extol fortune.
Grave was the man in years, in looks, in word, his locks were grey, yet was his courage green.
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