Love reckons hours for months, and days for years;
And every little absence is an age.
Alcm. What says my lord?
Amph. No, my Alcmena, no:
True love by its impatience measures time,
And the dear object never comes too soon.
Alcm. Nor ever came you so, nor ever shall;
But you yourself are changed from what you were,
Palled in desires, and surfeited of bliss.
Not so I met you at your last return;