But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.
Death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!
Where hateful Death put on his ugliest mask.
A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*
Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service
Therefore it is most expedient for the wise, if Don Worm (his conscience) find no impediment to the contrary, to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself.