. . . I am bound upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears do scald like molten lead.

    Oh, devil, devil!
If that the earth could teem with woman’s tears,
Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile.
Out of my sight!

Fire that's closest kept burns most of all.

The fire i' th' flint Shows not till it be struck; our gentle flame Provokes itself and like the current flies Each bound it chafes.

A little fire is quickly trodden out; Which, being suffer'd, rivers cannot quench.

A little fire is quickly trodden out,/ Which being suffered, rivers cannot quench.