The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
And you touched my heart with a thousand pleasures, but broke it into a million pieces.
Yes, that’s the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn’t hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.
“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”