“Love me!... Why?”

“Why, why is this?Think'st thou I'ld make a lie of jealousy,To follow still the changes of the moonWith fresh suspicions? No; to be once in doubtIs once to be resolved: exchange me for a goat,When I shall turn the business of my soulTo such exsufflicate and blown surmises,Matching thy inference. 'Tis not to make me jealousTo say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company,Is free of speech, sings, plays and dances well;Where virtue is, these are more virtuous:Nor from mine own weak merits will I drawThe smallest fear or doubt of her revolt;For she had eyes, and chose me. No, Iago;I'll see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove;And on the proof, there is no more but this,--Away at once with love or jealousy!”

“You're in love?OutOut of love?I love someone. She doesn't love me.”

“Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punish'd and cured is that the lunacy is soordinary that the whippers are in love too.”

“Oh why rebuke you him that loves you so? / Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.”

“Love asks me no questions, and gives me endless support.”

“Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate!O any thing, of nothing first create!O heavy lightness, serious vanity,Misshapen 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.”