Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian.
Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears; what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven
How soar sweet music is, when time is broke, and no proportion kept!
If fortune torments me, hope contents me.
How many a holy and obsequious tear hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye, as interest of the dead!