Thou art like one of those fellows that, when he enters the confines of a tavern, claps me his sword upon the table and says “God send me no need of thee!” and, by the operation of the second cup, draws it on the drawer when indeed there is no need.
For thou art as glorious to this night.
O brawling love, O loving hate, O anything of nothing first created!
Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears.
Thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy.