For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.

Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love

Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?

DEMETRIUS Relent, sweet Hermia: and, Lysander, yield Thy crazed title to my certain right. LYSANDER You have her father's love, Demetrius; Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him.

The fittest time to corrupt a man's wife is when she's fallen out with her husband.

Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time in you?

The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.