Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.

Is this the generation of love? Hot blood, hot thoughts and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers. Is love a generation of vipers?

The rain, it raineth every day.

This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.

O, that this too too solid flesh would melt Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, (135) Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two: (140) So excellent a king; that was, to this.

Women are as roses, whose fair flower, being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.

This is the very ecstasy of love.