Do not speak like a death's-head, do not bid me remember mine end.
I have lov'd her ever since I saw her; and still I see her beautiful
Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain.
Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek.
The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.
This day's black fate on more days doth depend; This but begins the woe, others must end.