Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.

The rain, it raineth every day.

A college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?

Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered!

The hideous god of war.

Cupid is a knavish lad, Thus to make poor females mad.

His neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage. He is indeed a horse.