The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown, is often left unloved.

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream—For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause, there's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life

It is my soul that calls upon my name; How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, like softest music to attending ears! -Romeo

I will speak daggers to her, but use none.

O how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes favors! There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, that sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, more pangs and fears than wars or women have, and when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again.

What is light, if Sylvia be not seen? What is joy if Sylvia be not by?

A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty.