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Here feel we not the penalty of Adam, The seasons’ difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind, Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say, “This is no flattery. These are counselors That feelingly persuade me what I am.” (II.i.5–10)
Oh, what a world is this when what is comely Envenoms him that bears it! (II.iii.14–15)
How many actions most ridiculous Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy? (II.iv.25–26)
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