An envious fever of pale and bloodless emulation.

...too much sadness hath congealed your blood,And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.

I cannot speak your england.

I love thee, I love thee with a love that shall not die. Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.

Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both!

Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness.

When most I wink, then do my eyes best see