Love is a spirit all compact of fire
How soon my sorrow hath destroyed my face
Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions!
Who can cloy the hungry edge of appetite?
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good.
I say there is no darkness but ignorance.
Temptation is the fire that brings up the scum of the heart.
"You have of late stood out against your brother, and he hath taken you newly into his grace; where it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself: it is needful that you frame the season for your own harvest
There's nothing serious in mortality. All is but toys; renown and grace is dead, The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees is left this vault to brag of.
O thou invisible spirit of wine! if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil
A cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in it.
The wine-cup is the little silver well, Where truth, if truth there be, doth dwell.
Give me a bowl of wine: have not that alacrity of spirit, Nor cheer of mind, that I was wont to have.