For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,
Than women's are. ...
For women are as roses, whose fair flow'r
Being once display'd doth fall that very hour.
Viola: And so they are; alas, that they are so!
To die, even when they to perfection grow!

Autore: William Shakespeare