It is the very error of the moon; She comes more nearer earth than she was wont, And makes men mad.
O heaven! that one might read the book of fate, and see the revolution of the times.
Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!
Love is the greatest of dreams, yet the worst of nightmares.
Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief.
But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts; whereof I take this that you call love to bea sect or scion.... It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will.