Gonzalo:

Still I must thank you.
This is the most passionate,
Most pitifull Prince,
Who in the Caldron of affections,
Looks as he had been par-boy'ld.

Philander:

If I offend with too much loving you,
It is a fault that I must still commit,
To make your mercy shine the more on me.

Erota:

You are the self-same creature you condemn,
Or else you durst not follow me with hope
That I can pity you, who am so far
From granting any comfort in this kind,
That you and all men else shall perish first:
I will live free and single, till I find
Something above a man to equal me;
Put all your brave _Heroes_ into one,
Your Kings and Emperours, and let him come
In person of a man, and I should scorn him:
Must, and will scorn him.
The god of love himself hath lost his eyes,
His Bow and Torch extinguish'd, and the Poets
That made him first a god, have lost their fire