Jealousy is love bed of burning snarl.
The season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures.
She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!
Prepare, You lovers, to know Love a thing of moods: Not like hard life, of laws.
Swift doth young Love flee, And we stand wakened, shivering from our dream.
The most dire disaster in love is the death of imagination.
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