If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.
A wit should no more be sincere, than a woman constant; one argues a decay of parts, as to other of beauty.
I came up stairs into the world, for I was born in a cellar.
Thou art a retailer of phrases, and dost deal in remnants of remnants.
In my conscience I believe the baggage loves me, for she never speaks well of me herself, nor suffers any body else to rail at me.
Nothing but you can lay hold of my mind, and that can lay hold of nothing but you.