I am your wife if you will marry me. If not, I'll die your maid. To be your fellow You may deny me, but I'll be your servant Whether you will or no.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought

Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.

Who could refrain that had a heart to love and in that heart courage to make love known?

There's beggary in love that can be reckoned

Every man has business and desire, Such as it is.