Your perfection is a poor thing, comes soon, and lasts but a little while; ours is a ceaseless ripening.

I am not yet ripe, and have lived thousands of your years--how many, I never cared to note.

The everlasting will not be measured.
"Many lovers have sought me; I have loved none of them: they sought but to enslave me; they sought me but as the men of my city seek gems of price .-- When you found me, I found a man! I put you to the test; you stood it; your love was genuine!--It was, however, far from ideal--far from such love as I would have.

You loved me truly, but not with true love.

Pity has, but is not love.