There Was Never Yet Philosopher That Could

Love Is Merely A Madness.

Men Of Few Words Are The Best Men." (3.2.41)

Of One That Lov'd Not Wisely But Too Well.

One Sin, I Know, Another Doth Provoke. Murder's As Near To Lust As Flame To Smoke.

Why Are Our Bodies Soft, And Weak, And Smooth But That Our Soft Conditions And Our Hearts Should Well Agree With Our External Parts?