I am ill at these numbers.
For such things as you, I can scarce think there's any, ye're so slight.
What, man, defy the devil. Consider, he's an enemy to mankind.
Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.
And in some perfumes there is more delight than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know that music hath a far more pleasing sound.
An overflow of good converts to bad.