Who worships Cupid doth adore a boy; Boys' earnest are at first in their delight, But for a new soon leave their dearest toy, And out of mind as soon… - Fulke Greville, 1st Baron Brooke

In night when colours all to black are cast, Distinction lost, or gone down with the light; The eye — a watch to inward senses placed, Not seeing, yet still having power of sight — Gives vain alarums to the inward sense.

Now rime, the son of rage, which art no kin to skill, And endless grief, which deads my life, yet knows not how to kill, Go seek that hapless tomb, which if ye hap to find, Salute the stones that keep the bones that held so good a mind.

Love is no true-made looking-glass Which perfect yields the shape we bring; It ugly shows us all that was, And flatters every future thing.