I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none

Affection, mistress of passion, sways it to the mood of what it likes or loathes.

O, she's warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.

Look, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder east! Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tip-toe on the misty mountain-tops.

Make not your thoughts your prisons.

Bell, book and candle shall not drive me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on.

I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew, Than one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd, Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree, And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie.