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.

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.

Divine is Love and scorneth worldly pelf, And can be bought with nothing but with self.

Our bodies are but the anvils of pain and disease and our minds the hives of unnumbered cares.