See where she comes apparelled like the spring.

My only love sprung from my only hate.

The last taste of sweets is sweetest last.

Get thee glass eyes, and like a scurvy politician, seem to see the things thou dost not.

Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me?

No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity.

Death lies on her like an untimely frost.