Let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
What Time hath scanted men in hair, he hath given them in wit.
There was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently
I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say - I love you
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.
And all this day an unaccustomed spirit lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.