Leave her to heaven
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,
To prick and sting her.

Some cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared.

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting.

Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, that he hath turn'd a heaven unto hell!