What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!
What the vengeance, could he not speak 'em fair?
Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night.
'Tis brief, my lord...as woman's love.
He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.
Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.