The expedition of my violent love outrun the pauser, reason.
He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.
The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.
'Twas merry when You wagered on your angling, when your diver Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he With fervency drew up.
You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame
O me, you juggler, you canker-blossom, you thief of love!