William Shakespeare

The course of true love never did run smooth.

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

And though she be but little, she is fierce.

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet Are of imagination all compact:

The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them.

If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended,

and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name.

So quick bright things come to confusion.

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,