How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica: look, how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins. Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

Love's not love When it is mingled with regards that stand Aloof from th' entire point.

He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink; his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts. (Shakespeare, Love's Labor's Lost, IV)

O heaven! that one might read the book of fate, and see the revolution of the times.

After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.

Man and wife, being two, are one in love.

For many men that stumble at the threshold are well foretold that danger lurks within.