A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.

To die, is to be banish'd from myself; And Silvia is myself: banish'd from her, Is self from self: a deadly banishment! What light is light, if Silvia be not seen? What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by? Unless it be to think that she is by, And feed upon the shadow of perfection. Except I be by Silvia in the night, There is no music in the nightingale; Unless I look on Silvia in the day, There is no day for me to look upon; She is my essence, and I leave to be, If I be not by her fair influence Foster'd, illumin'd, cherish'd, kept alive.

It is to be all made of fantasy, All made of passion and all made of wishes, All adoration, duty, and observance, All humbleness, all patience and impatience, All purity, all trial, all observance

Die for adultery! No: The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight

Every cloud engenders not a storm.

The eye sees all, but the mind shows us what we want to see.