InsaneJournal

A time, methinks, too short to make a world-without-end bargain in. No, no, my lord. Your Grace is perjured much. Full of dear guiltiness and therefore this: If for my love as there is no such cause, you will do aught. This shall you do for me. Your oath I will not trust. But go with speed to some forlorn and naked hermitage. There stay until the 12 celestial signs have brought about the annual reckoning. If this austere insociable life change not your offer made in heat of blood, then at the expiration of the year, come challenge me. Challenge me by these desserts. And by this virgin palm now kissing thine, I will be thine.

From woman's eyes this doctrine I derive. They are the ground, the books, the academes from whence doth spring the true Promethean fire. Other slow arts entirely keep the brain, and therefore, finding barren practicers scare show a harvest of their heavy toil. But love, first learned in a lady's eyes, lives not alone immured in the brain, but with the motion of all elements, courses as swift a thought in every power and gives to every power a double power above their functions and their offices. It adds a precious seeing to the eye. A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind. A lover's ear will hear the lowest sound. Love's feeling is more soft and sensible than are the tender horns of cockled snails. Love's tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste. For valour is not love a Hercules still climbing trees in the Hesperides. Subtle as Sphinx, as sweet and musical as bright Apollo's lute strung with his hair. And when love speaks, the voice of all the gods make heaven drowsy with the harmony.

Heaven. I'm in heaven.