Things base and vile, holding no quantity, love can transpose to form and dignity
There`s beggary in the love that can be reckon'd
The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown, is often left unloved.
The hind that would be mated by the lion must die for love
The chameleon Love can feed on the air
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
My love admits no qualifying dross