If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.
Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange.
Present mirth hath present laughter. What's to come is still unsure.
I must be cruel only to be kind; Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.
Love is . . . a madness most discreet
a girl takes too much time to love and a few seconds to hate. but a boy takes a few seconds to love and too much time to hate.