Cupid, that chubby cherub love dispenser, is dead. But before he died, he appointed me his apprentice in love.

I loved Cupid, and that was precisely why I killed him. I strangled him. Then I shot him 17 times with his heart-shaped arrows.

Then I burned his body while I roasted and toasted marshmallows and toasted to the good times he brought to the world.

Then I took his ashes and mixed them in cake batter and literally consumed him.

Mark it down: I have officially taken over as the foremost authority on love.

I can't fly around like he could, but I have other endearing qualities. I can’t think of any at the moment, but I must have some.

[S]urely the Cupid serving him was lefthanded, with a weak chin and no imagination.

He can't even shoot straight.

Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

For love she wist was weak without those arts,
And slow; for jealousy is Cupid's food;
For the swift steed runs not so fast alone,
As when some strain, some strive him to outgone.

...man...is a frail, lost creature, too weak to walk unaided.

I notice how it takes a lazy man, a man that hates moving, to get set on moving once he does get started off, the same as he was set on staying still, like it aint the moving he hates so much as the starting and the stopping.

The reason fat men are good natured is they can neither fight nor run.

Cupid's deep rivers have their shallow fords,
His griefs, bring joys; his losses, recompenses;
He breeds the sore, and cures us of the pain:
Achilles' lance that wounds and heals again.

Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses—Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lips, the rose
Growing one's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes—
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this for thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind.

He who moves not forward, goes backward.

You can’t hit a target if you don’t know what it is.

Can't act, slightly bald, also dances.