What a deformed thief this fashion is.
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege; The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her?
The Brightness of her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing, and think it were not night.
Lechery, lechery; still, wars and lechery: nothing else holds fashion.
For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.