Trip over love, you can get up. Fall in love and you fall forever. Anyone can catch your eye, but it takes someone special to catch your heart. Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.

Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart. Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.

I have pursued her, as love hath pursued me

Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I; every man to his business.

The whirligig of time brings in his revenges.

How use doth breed a habit in a man.

Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow