If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
Divine is Love and scorneth worldly pelf,
And can be bought with nothing but with self.
What is our life? A play of passion. Our mirth the music of division. Our mother's wombs the tyring houses be, Where we are drest for this short Comedy.
Our bodies are but the anvils of pain and disease and our minds the hives of unnumbered cares.
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