“Alas, that love, so gentle in his view,Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!*It’s sad. Love looks like a nice thing, but it’s actually very rough when you experience it.*”

“Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.Mercutio: If love be rough with you, be rough with love;Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.”

“Under love’s heavy burden do I sink.And, to sink in it, should you burden love;Too great oppression for a tender thing.Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.If love be rough with you, be roughwith love;Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.”

“If love be rough with you, be rough with love;Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.Give me a case to put my visage in:A visor for a visor! what care IWhat curious eye doth quote deformities?Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me.”

“She dreams of him that has forgot her love;You dote on her that cares not for your love.'Tis pity love should be so contrary;And thinking of it makes me cry 'alas!”

“Under the greenwood tree,Who loves to lie with meAnd tune his merry note,Unto the sweet bird's throat;Come hither, come hither, come hither.Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.”

“Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still,Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will!Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love.Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!O any thing, of nothing first create!O heavy lightness! Serious vanity!Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!This love feel I, that feel no love in this.Dost thou not laugh?”