Slander lives upon succession, For ever housed where it gets possession.

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.

What we determine we often break. Purpose is but the slave to memory.

Why, thou owest god a death.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night.

Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?

Hot blood begets hot thoughts, And hot thoughts beget Hot deeds, And hot deeds is love.