Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.
That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.
Mine eyes smell onions: I shall weep anon.
Enough no more; Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O, Thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint.
No stony bulwark can resist the love, and love dares what anyone can love.