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Let the man who does not wish to be idle, fall in love.
It is better to poison her with the sweet bait of love. Better to love amiss than nothing to have loved.
Ah! The seasons of love roll not backward but onward, downward forever. The chemist of love will this perishing mould, were it made out of mire, transmute into gold.
Forever dwelling on the past, never looking to the future.