What is light, if Sylvia be not seen? What is joy if Sylvia be not by?
Beauty itself doth of itself persuade the eyes of men without an orator.
A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*
For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy
So well thy words become thee as thy wounds.
He that sleeps feels not the tooth-ache