My heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand.
I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.
A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*
When a father gives to his son, both laugh; when a son gives to his father, both cry.
Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
The arms are fair, When the intent of bearing them is just.