Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.

If thou art rich, thou art poor; for, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey, and death unloads thee.

There's nothing in this world can make me joy.

When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes.

Where shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly 's done, when the battle 's lost and won

If your mind dislike anything obey it

I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, Perplexed in the extreme. . .