I never yet did hear, That the bruis'd heart was pierced through the ear
Light and lust are deadly enemies.
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.
Who soars too near the sun, with golden wings, melts them.
Thou unfit for any place but hell.
Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue but moody and dull melancholy, kinsman to grim and comfortless despair.