Fie, no more of love! The sun doth burn my face I must remove. VENUS Ay me, . . . . young, and so unkind? Art thou a woman's son, and canst not feel what 'tis to love, . . . . . . . ? Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone, well-painted idol, image dull and dead, statue contenting but the eye alone, thing like a man, but of no woman bred! And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak. Being mad before, how doth she now for wits? Now which way shall she turn? What shall she say?"