Lovers can do their amorous rites by their own beauties.
Love is blind, and lovers cannot see. The pretty follies that themselves commit.
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath. May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
O my dove, in the clefts of the rock, in the crannies of the cliff, let me see your face, let me hear your voice, for your voice is sweet, and your face is lovely.