But the symptoms of the mind in lovers are almost infinite, and so diverse, that no art can comprehend them; though they be merry sometimes, and rapt beyond themselves for joy: yet most part, love is a plague, a torture, a hell, a bitter sweet passion at last; [5295]Amor melle et felle est faecundissimus, gustum dat dulcem et amarum. 'Tis suavis amaricies, dolentia delectabilis, hilare tormentum;
[5296]Et me melle beant suaviora,
Et me felle necant amariora.
Quae ad solis radios conversae aureae erant,
Adversus nubes ceruleae, quale jabar iridis,
[5299]———dolor, querelae,
Lamentatio, lachrymae perennes,
Languor, anxietas, amaritudo;
Aut si triste magis potest quid esse,
Hos tu das comites Neaera vitae.