Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.
These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume
There's beggary in love that can be reckoned
If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage.
O teach me how I should forget to think (1.1.224)
He jests at scars that never felt a wound.