A plague on both your houses.

He that dies pays all debts.

How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.

She told her, while she kept it, 'Twould make her amiable and subdue my father Entirely to her love, but if she lost it Or made a gift of it, my father's eye Should hold her loathed and his spirits should hunt After new fancies.

Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?

I do love nothing in the world so well as you- is not that strange?

Short summers lightly have a forward spring.