Unsubstantial Death is amorous.

O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven

Why, i' faith, methinks she's too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little for a great praise: only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome; and being no other but as she is, I do not like her. (Benedick, from Much Ado About Nothing)

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!

Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now.

Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.

I go, I go, look how I go, swifter than an arrow from a bow