Now, infidel, I have you on the hip!
It is lost at dice, what ancient honor won.
Then was I as a tree whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night, a storm or robbery, call it what you will, shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, and left me bare to weather.
I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say - I love you
These times of woe afford no time to woo.
That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold; What hath quenched them hath given me fire.