Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.

The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.

Who soars too near the sun, with golden wings, melts them.

'Tis the soldier's life to have their balmy slumbers waked with strife.

O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with Time's deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face. But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?

Good wombs have borne bad sons." -- (Miranda, I:2)

Why, i' faith, methinks she's too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little for a great praise: only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome; and being no other but as she is, I do not like her. (Benedick, from Much Ado About Nothing)