Love reasons without reason.
He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter.
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. And let my liver rather heat with wine, than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
While he was drunk asleep, or in his rage, or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed.
What showers arise, blown with the windy tempest of my heart