Are you sure/That we are awake? It seems to me/That yet we sleep, we dream

By Heaven, I love thee better than myself

These words are razors to my wounded heart.

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.

These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite. Therefore love moderately; long love doth so; Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

If you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt.

I am bewitched with the rogue's company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I'll be hanged.