Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
Say, thou art mine; and ever, My love, as it begins, shall so persevere
Love is . . . a madness most discreet
He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.
Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, but give it way a while and let it waste.