Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed,

Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard!

And I to sigh for her, to watch for her,

To pray for her! Go to, it is a plague

That Cupid will impose for my neglect

Of his almighty dreadful little might.

Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan;

Some men must love my lady, and some Joan.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream

[I, i, 226–45] Her own beauties once adored, but now despised by a sweetheart who has transferred his affections to her best friend Hermia, Helena is forced to reflect upon the utter, unjust arbitrariness of love:

How happy some o’er other some can be!

Through Athens I am thought as fair as she.

But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so;

He will not know what all but he do know.

And as he errs, doting on Hermia’s eyes,

So I, admiring of his qualities.

Things base and vile, holding no quantity,

Love can transpose to form and dignity.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,

And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

Nor hath love’s mind of any judgement taste;

Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.

And therefore is love said to be a child

Because in choice he is so oft beguiled.

As waggish boys in game themselves forswear,

So the boy love is perjured everywhere;

For ere Demetrius looked on Hermia’s eyne,

He hailed down oaths that he was only mine,

And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt,

So he dissolved, and showers of oaths did melt.

Romeo and Juliet

[II, ii, 2–25] Romeo waxes astronomical as his star appears in the night sky – with some withering words for moon-goddess Diana, cold patroness of female chastity:

But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?

It is the East, and Juliet is the sun!

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,

Who is already sick and pale with grief

That thou her maid art far more fair than she.

Be not her maid, since she is envious.

Her vestal livery is but sick and green,

And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off.

It is my lady. O, it is my love!

0 that she knew she were!

She speaks. Yet she says nothing. What of that?

Her eye discourses. I will answer it.

I am too bold. ’Tis not to me she speaks.

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,

Having some business, do entreat her eyes

To twinkle in their spheres till they return.

What if her eyes were there, they in her head?

The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars

As daylight doth a lamp. Her eyes in heaven

Would through the airy region stream so bright

That birds would sing and think it were not night.

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!

O that I were a glove upon that hand,

That I might touch that cheek!