I must to the barber's, monsieur, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face.
Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light
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.
Love is a spirit all compact of fire.
it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance
Is this the generation of love? Hot blood, hot thoughts and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers. Is love a generation of vipers?