Love will not be spurred to what it loathes

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk.

Blood will have blood.

Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, but gold that's put to use more gold begets.

All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.

Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.

Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again.