Trust me, my Atticus, in love are wars;And Cupid has his camp, as well as Mars:The age that's fit for war best suits with love,The old in both unserviceable prove,Infirm in war, and impotent in love.The soldiers which a general does require,Are such as ladies would in bed desire:Who but a soldier, and a lover, canBear the night's cold, in show'rs of hail and rain?One in continual watch his station keeps,Or on the earth in broken slumbers sleeps;The other takes his still repeated roundBy mistress' house — then lodges on the ground.