Take but degree away, untune that string, and hark, what discord follows!
Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
Juliet is the east and i am the sun.
And too soon Marred are those so early Made.
Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, have yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltiness of time.
She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared