Love is heavy and light, bright and dark, hot and cold, sick and healthy, asleep and awake- its everything except what it is! (Act 1, scene 1)

Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs.

Suffer love; a good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.

When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo; O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.

Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punish'd and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too.

What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye

Do not plunge thyself too far in anger.