A woman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dress her not.
Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I; every man to his business.
A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty.
O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else? And shall I couple Hell?
If you would persuade, you must appeal to interest rather than intellect. We are advertis'd by our loving friends.
Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.