Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is wing's Cupid painted blind.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, Are of imagination all compact.
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; They kill us for their sport.
Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
Dislike me not for my complexion, The shadowed livery of the burnished sun.
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