And then he drew a dial from his poke, And looking with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock: Thus we may see', Quoth he, 'how the world wags: 'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more 'twill be eleven; And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, And then from hour to hour we rot and rot.

Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench; I love her ten times more than e'er I did: O, how I long to have some chat with her!

Give obedience where 'tis truly owed.

Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire.

A good heart is the sun and the moon; or, rather, the sun and not the moon, for it shines bright and never changes.

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