I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursued my humor not pursuing his, And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.

Sweet are the uses of adversity which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head.

The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.

Affection, mistress of passion, sways it to the mood of what it likes or loathes.

These violent delights have violent ends.

If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.

I fill up a place, which may be better... when I have made it empty.