His helmet now shall make a hive for bees, And lovers’ songs be turned to holy psalms; A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, And feed on prayers… - George Peele

What thing is love?—for (well I wot) love is a thing It is a prick, it is a sting, It is a pretty, pretty thing; It is a fire, it is a coal, Whose flame creeps in at every hole!

My merry, merry, merry roundelay
Concludes with Cupid’s curse: They that do change old love for new,
Pray gods, they change for worse!

O Gentle Love, ungentle for thy deede, Thou makest my hart, A bloodie marke,
With piercing shot to bleede.Shoote soft sweete Love, for feare thou shoote amisse, For feare too keene, Thy arrowes beene:
And hit the hart, where my belovèd is.Too faire that fortune were, nor never I Shall be so blest, Among the rest:
That love shall ceaze on her by simpathy.Then since with Love my prayers beare no boote, This doth remaine, To cease my paine,
I take the wound, and die at Venus foote.