Good wine needs no bush.
O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, that he hath turn'd a heaven unto hell
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
When love begins to sicken and decay it uses an enforced ceremony.
O teach me how I should forget to think (1.1.224)
I am sir Oracle, and when I ope my lips, let no dog bark.