I have no other but a woman's reason: I think him so, because I think him so.
Every thing that grows / Holds in perfection but a little moment.
I will not trust you, I, Nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray, My legs are longer though, to run away.
I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap
Give it an understanding, but no tongue.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.