The course of true love never did run smooth.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.
And though she be but little, she is fierce.
I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was.
Lord, what fools these mortals be!
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them.
O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; it is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
I am not what I am.
Love can transpose to form and dignity.
My soul is in the sky.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
Reason and love keep little company together nowadays.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
Love is blind, and lovers cannot see.
Our true intent is all for your delight.
So quick bright things come to confusion.
The more I love, the more he hateth me.
Cupid is a knavish lad, thus to make poor females mad.
Jack shall have Jill. Nought shall go ill.
My heart is true as steel.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on.
The more I love, the more he hateth me.
Through the forest have I gone. But Athenian found I none.
Love is merely a madness.
If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended.
I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad.
Love is blind and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit.
Reason and love keep little company together nowadays.
What hempen home-spuns have we swaggering here.
Lord, what fools these mortals be!
And this weak and idle theme, no more yielding but a dream.
O, how full of briers is this working-day world!
The best in this kind are but shadows, and the worst are no worse if imagination mend them.
The more thou damm’st it up, the more it burns.
As she hath mine eyesight so I blinded hers.
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains.
But earthlier happy is the rose distilled, than that which withering on the virgin thorn grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
Journeys end in lovers meeting.
The working of a soul in agony.
Anon, a theatre!
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices.
Thou speakest aright. I am the merry wanderer of the night.
You have her father’s love, Demetrius; let me have Hermia’s. Do you marry him.
I’ll follow thee and make a heaven of hell, to die upon the hand I love so well.
I see their knavery. This is to make an ass of me; to fright me, if they could.
This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard.
To die, to sleep- To sleep, perchance to dream.
What fools these mortals be!
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