I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end Like quills upon the fretful porpentine. But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O list!

We go to gain a little patch of ground that hath in it no profit but the name.

Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.

He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.

They that stand high have many blasts to shake them.

These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.

But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts; whereof I take this that you call love to bea sect or scion.... It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will.