O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do.

This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet

You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!

Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O any thing, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity, Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this.

Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving.

How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath?

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.