The heavens rejoice in motion, why should I Abjure my so much loved variety.
Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.
Solitude is a torment which is not threatened in hell itself.
Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.
I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we lov'd?
Busy old fool, unruly Sun, why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?