He that loves to be flattered is worthy o' the flatterer.
Alas, how love can trifle with itself!
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.
Love denied blights the soul we owe to God.
Et tu Brute! (You too, Brutus!)
I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.