This is the very ecstasy of love.
O tiger's heart wrapped in a woman's hide!
Thou unfit for any place but hell.
She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.
Let the sap of reason quench the fire of passion.
But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.