Ay me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. But, either it was different in blood,- Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,- Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.

With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out

We are such stuff that dreams are made of.

To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, gives in your weakness strength unto your foe.

Love does not see with the eyes, but with the soul.

Headstrong liberty is lashed with woe.

Assume a virtue if you have it not.