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.

The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow We are such stuff as dreams are made of.

The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept.

We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.

He that is truly dedicated to war hath no self-love

The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.

And nothing is, but what is not.