Love is . . . a madness most discreet

The eagle suffers little birds to sing.

Weed your better judgments of all opinion that grows rank in them.

What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!

So. Lie there, my art.

She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared

I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.