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

Alas, their love may be call'd appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate

Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.

The leopard does not change his spots.

Fondling,' she saith, 'since I have hemm'd thee here Within the circuit of this ivory pale, I'll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer; Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale: Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

Conscience is a thousand swords.

Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel.