It is the bright day that brings forth the adder, and that craves wary walking.
My love is thaw'd; Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, bears no impression of the thing it was
Fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to herrings, the husband's the bigger.
Love will not be spurred to what it loathes
Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death.
Is this a vision? Is this a dream? Do I sleep?