love is blind and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit

This thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine.

The iron tongue of Midnight hath told twelve lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outstep the coming morn as much as we this night over-watch'd.

You have but mistook me all the while... I live by bread like you, taste grief, feel want, need friends. Conditioned thus how can you call me king?

Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .

You have too much respect upon the world; They lose it that do buy it with much care