Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward,But then woos best when most his choice is froward.

Beauty’s ensign yetIs crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,And death’s pale flag is not advanced there.

Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.

An envious feverOf pale and bloodless emulation.

But I do love thee! and when I love thee not,Chaos is come again.

When our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors