Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O any thing, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity, Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this.

Remembrance of things past.

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother

It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

My love's more richer than my tongue.

Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love