Shall I never see a bachelor of three score again?

Love's not love When it is mingled with regards that stand Aloof from th' entire point.

The fool multitude, that choose by show, not learning more than the fond eye doth teach.

Let the sap of reason quench the fire of passion.

The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, And say what thou seest yond.

O Helena, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.