“Love is too young to know what conscience is,  Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?  Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,  Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:  For, thou betraying me, I do betray  My nobler part to my gross body's treason;  My soul doth tell my body that he may  Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason,  But rising at thy name doth point out thee,  As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,  He is contented thy poor drudge to be,  To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.    No want of conscience hold it that I call    Her 'love,' for whose dear love I rise and fall.”

“Is it thy will, thy image should keep openMy heavy eyelids to the weary night?Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from theeSo far from home into my deeds to pry,To find out shames and idle hours in me,The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:It is my love that keeps mine eye awake:Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,To play the watchman ever for thy sake:For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,From me far off, with others all too near.”

“Yet do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,My love shall in my verse ever live young”

“Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain,Have put on black and loving mourners be,Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,Nor that full star that ushers in the even,Doth half that glory to the sober west,As those two mourning eyes become thy face:O! let it then as well beseem thy heartTo mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace,And suit thy pity like in every part. Then will I swear beauty herself is black, And all they foul that thy complexion lack”

“Tis but thy name that is my enemy;Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,Nor arm, nor face, nor any other partBelonging to a man. O, be some other name!What’s in a name? that which we call a roseBy any other name would smell as sweet;So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,Retain that dear perfection which he owesWithout that title. Romeo, doff thy name,And for that name which is no part of theeTake all myself.I take thee at thy word:Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized;Henceforth I never will be Romeo.What man art thou that thus bescreen’din nightSo stumblest on my counsel?By a nameI know not how to tell thee who I am:My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,Because it is an enemy to thee;Had I it written, I would tear the word.My ears have not yet drunk a hundred wordsOf that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound:”

“O my love, my wife!Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breathHath had no power yet upon thy beauty.”

“Through the forest have I gone.But Athenian found I none,On whose eyes I might approveThis flower's force in stirring love.Night and silence.--Who is here?Weeds of Athens he doth wear:This is he, my master said,Despised the Athenian maid;And here the maiden, sleeping sound,On the dank and dirty ground.Pretty soul! she durst not lieNear this lack-love, this kill-courtesy.Churl, upon thy eyes I throwAll the power this charm doth owe.When thou wakest, let love forbidSleep his seat on thy eyelid:So awake when I am gone;For I must now to Oberon.”