Love all, trust a few. Do wrong to none.
Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boist'rous, and it pricks like a thorn
If they love they know not why, they hate upon no better ground, they hate upon no better a ground
If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark
If love be blind, it best agrees with night
I will wear my heart upon my sleeve for daws to peck at.
For aught that I could ever read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.
Even as one heat another heat expels, or as one nail by strength drives out another, so the remembrance of my former love is by a newer object quite forgotten.
By heaven, I do love: and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be mekancholy.
But the strong base and building of my love is as the very centre of the earth, drawing all things to it.