He is brutal:
"For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love."
He is inconstant:
"I can love any, so she be not true."
He bewails the inconstancy of women:
"Though she were true when you met her,
And last till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two or three."
His passion for sheer ugliness carries him away time after time:
"Had it been some bad smell, he would have thought
That his own feet, or breath, that smell had wrought."
Or again:
"And like a bunch of ragged carrots stand
The short swollen fingers of thy gouty hand."