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

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, how this spring of love resembleth the uncertain glory of an April day!