I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo to in festival terms.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words, Remembers me of his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form

Danger knows full well that Caesar is more dangerous than he. We are two lions litter’d in one day, and I the elder and more terrible.

You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with thankfulness. For your own gifts, make yourselves praised.

Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.

A knot you are of damned bloodsuckers.

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.