“O, were mine eyeballs into bullets turn'd, That I in rage might shoot them at your faces!”

“O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, That he hath turn'd a heaven unto a hell!”

“See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!”

“Would the fountain of your mind were clear again,that I might water an ass at it!”

“As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put besides his part,Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; So I, for fear of trust, forget to say The perfect ceremony of love's rite, And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,O'ercharg'd with burden of mine own love's might. O, let my books be then the eloquenceAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast;Who plead for love, and look for recompense,More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.”

“Presume not that I am the thing I was;For God doth know, so shall the world perceive,That I have turn'd away my former self;So will I those that kept me company.”

“One half of me is yours, the other half is yours,Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,And so all yours.”