An admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition on the charge of a star!
In thy foul throat thou liest.
Woe doth the heavier sit where it perceives it is but faintly borne.
These times of woe afford no time to woo.
Ungracious wretch, fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, where manners ne'er were preached!
Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.