For who so firm that cannot be seduced?

More of your conversation would infect my brain.

What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover.

My falcon now is sharp and passing empty, and till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, for then she never looks upon her lure.

Drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things . . . nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance.

He receives comfort like cold porridge.