Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.

It warms the very sickness in my heart, That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, "Thus diddest thou;"

Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?

Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough.

O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.

Rich honesty dwells like a miser, Sir, in a poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster.

Make not your thoughts your prisons.