Hardness ever of hardness is mother.
We see which way the stream of time doth run.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano!
Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste; Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger