Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.

I am afeard there are few die well that die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is their argument?

the fire seven times tried this; seven times tried that judgement is that did never choose amiss some there be that shadows kiss; such have but a shadows bliss, there be fool alive, i wis silverd o'er, and so was this Take what wife you will to bed I will ever be your head. So be gone; you are sped.

Love's stories written in love's richest books. To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes.

Old Time the clock-setter.

He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink; his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts. (Shakespeare, Love's Labor's Lost, IV)

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?