Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste; Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.

Can we outrun the heavens?

No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.

I would not wish any companion in the world but you.

For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.

Enough no more; Tis not so sweet now as it was before.

Who seeks, and will not take, when once 'tis offer'd, Shall never find it more.