O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.
Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds and waters sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report: this cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove.
Refrain tonight and thou shalt lend a kind of easiness to the next abstinence, the next more easy. for use almost can change the stamp of nature, and either master the Devil, or throw him out with wondrous potency.
There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps; and not ever sad then; for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamt of unhappiness, and waked herself with laughing.