O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on.
The wounds invisible that Love's keen arrows make.
All lovers swear more performance than they are able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing more than the perfection of ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one.
Do not cast away an honest man for a villain's accusation.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?
Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own