For it falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us While it was ours.

Love is too young to know what conscience is.

I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.

Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on his back.

I will speak daggers to her, but use none.

Alas, how love can trifle with itself!

Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.