I will kiss thy lips. Haply some poison yet doth hang on them.
These violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which, as they kiss, consume.
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, such shaping fantasies, that apprehend more than cool reason ever comprehends.
Give me that man that is not passion’s slave.
As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.
Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
See, see what showers arise, blown with the windy tempest of my heart.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
Know you not the fire that mounts the liquor till’t run o’er in seeming to augment it wastes it? Be advised. I say again there is no English soul more stronger to direct you than yourself, if with the sap of reason you would quench or but allay the fire of passion.
I cannot weep, for all my body’s moisture scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart.
I burn, I pine, I perish.
