Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I ha' lost my reputation, I ha' lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial!

Time, whose millioned accidents creep in betwixt vows, and change decrees of kings, tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharpest intents, divert strong minds to the course of altering things.

Ay me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. But, either it was different in blood,- Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,- Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.

I will speak daggers to her, but use none.

Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor; for 'tis the mind that makes the body rich

Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.