Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.

If love be rough with you, be rough with love;Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.

The rude sea grew civil at her song,And certain stars shot madly from their spheresTo hear the sea-maid's music.

The thorn from the bush one has planted, nourished and pruned pricks more deeply and draws more blood.

These high wild hills and rough uneven waysDraw out our miles and make them wearisome;But yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,Making the hard way sweet and delectable.

A rose, isn't quite as beautiful as it once was, when after its thorn pricks you.