Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;
Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears.
What is it else? A madness most discreet,
A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
Then love-devouring death do what he dare;
It is enough I may but call her mine.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet.
Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving.
But do thy worst to steal thyself,
For term of live thou art assurèd mine;
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
for it dependent upon that love of thine.
Had I but served my God with half the zeal. I served my king, he would not in mine age. Have left me naked to mine enemies.
Give every man thy ear but few thy voice.
All that glitters is not gold;
Often have you heard that told:
Many a man his life has sold
But my outside to behold:
Gilded tombs do worms enfold
Had you been as wise as bold,
Your in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been in'scroll'd
Fare you well: your suit is cold.' Cold, indeed, and labour lost: Then, farewell, heat and welcome, frost!
Words are full of falseness or art; the look is the language of the heart.