When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

To you your father should be as a god.

He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.

This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.

Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.

Love`s reason`s without reason