I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Nor that full star that ushers in the even, Doth half that glory to the sober west, As those two mourning eyes become thy face: O! let it then as well beseem thy heart To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace, And suit thy pity like in every part. Then will I swear beauty herself is black, And all they foul that thy complexion lack

There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.

Better conquest never canst thou make than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts against giddy, loose suggestions.

What? do I love her, that I desire to hear her speak again, and feast upon her eyes

It provokes the desire but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him and it mars him; it sets him on and it takes him off.

He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument.