[Thine] face is not worth sunburning.
If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark
If we are true to ourselves, we can not be false to anyone.
Hamlet: Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Ophelia: 'Tis brief, my lord. Hamlet: As woman's love.
Time ... thou ceaseless lackey to eternity.
If ever (as that ever may be near) you meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, then shall you know the wounds invisible that love's keen, arrows make.