Alas, how love can trifle with itself!

He that is robbed, not wanting what is stolen, him not know t, and he's not robbed at all.

Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror

I am never merry when I hear sweet music.

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph.

What a fool honesty is.

There's daggers in men's smiles.