“Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.”

Neither a borrower nor a lender be.

The course of true love never did run smooth.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.

What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep.