In sweet music is such art: killing care and grief of heart fall asleep, or hearing, die.

Suspicion shall be all stuck full of eyes.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.... [W]hat can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground?... [N]othing can we call our own, but death... [L]et us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings: - How some have been depos'd, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd.

I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.

I came, saw, and overcame.