Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.
I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
We go to gain a little patch of ground that hath in it no profit but the name.
The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream And greedily devour the treacherous bait.
Beware the ides of March.