The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.
In time we hate that which we often fear.
Let's meet as little as we can
He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.
Then was I as a tree whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night, a storm or robbery, call it what you will, shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, and left me bare to weather.
The prince of darkness is a gentleman!