An envious fever of pale and bloodless emulation.

When love begins to sicken and decay it uses an enforced ceremony.

Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear a robust periwig-pated fellow, tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings.

Death is a fearful thing.

A little fire is quickly trodden out, Which, being suffer'd, rivers cannot quench.

When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.

It provokes the desire but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him and it mars him; it sets him on and it takes him off.