The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.

Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me And tune his merry note, Unto the sweet bird's throat; Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

Hamlet: Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Ophelia: 'Tis brief, my lord. Hamlet: As woman's love.

I will not trust you, I, Nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray, My legs are longer though, to run away.

As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown.

Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.

Opinion, a sovereign mistress of effects.