Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, Too rude, too boist'rous, and it pricks like thorn.
If love be rough with you, be rough with love. Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.
If they do see thee, they will murder thee.
Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity.
Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy Be heaped like mine, and that thy skill be more To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath This neighbor air, and let rich music’s tongue Unfold the imagined happiness that both Receive in either by this dear encounter.
Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his substance, not of ornament. They are but beggars that can count their worth. But my true love is grown to such excess I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth