Macbeth — V. 5
We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
The Tempest — IV. 1
Love
A murd’rous, guilt shows not itself more soon,
Than love that would seem bid: love’s night is noon.
Twelfth Night — III. 2
Sweet love, changing his property,
Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate.
King Richard II. — III. 2
When love begins to sicken and decay,
It useth an enforced ceremony.
Julius Caesar — II. 2
The course of true-love never did run smooth.
Midsummer Night’s Dream — I. 1
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.
Idem
She never told her love,—
But let concealment, like a worm i’ th’ bud,
Feed on her damask check: she pined in thought
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?