One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.
But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
You are a lover. Borrow Cupid's wings and soar with them above a common bound.
Like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring: when a' was naked, he was, for all the world, like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife.
There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.