My heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand.

Lovers can do their amorous rites by their own beauties

Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.

The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness, And in the taste confounds the appetite: Therefore love moderately— long love doth so.

Let's go hand in hand, not one before another.

Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth

In a false quarrel there is no true valor.