Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.
O gentle son, / Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper, sprinkle cool patience.
One sin, I know, another doth provoke. Murder's as near to lust as flame to smoke.
There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it.
Let me not live, after my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff of younger spirits.