Dreams are the children of idled minds.

I love thee, I love thee with a love that shall not die. Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.

A man in all the world's new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain.

Presume not that I am the thing I was.

Hang those that talk of fear.

Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, And doth it give me such a sight as this?

Don't waste your love on somebody, who doesn't value it.