“ ‘Yet, Galatea, harder to be broke Than bullocks, unreclaim’d to bear the yoke, And far more stubborn than the knotted oak: Like sliding streams, impossible to hold; Like them fallacious, like their fountains cold; More warping than the willow, to decline My warm embrace, more brittle than the vine; Immoveable and fix’d in thy disdain: Rough as these rocks, and of a harder grain. More violent than is the rising flood; And the praised peacock is not half so proud. Fierce as the fire, and sharp as thistles are, And more outrageous than a mother bear: Deaf as the billows to the vows I make; And more revengeful than a trodden snake In swiftness fleeter than the flying hind, Or driven tempests, or the driving wind. All other faults with patience I can bear, But swiftness is the vice I only fear.

“ ‘Yet, if you knew me well, you would not shun My love, but to my wish’d embraces run: Would languish in your turn, and court my stay, And much repent of your unwise delay.