Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.

The time is out of joint.

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover.

I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

Mercutio: "If love be rough with you, be rough with love.

Die for adultery! No: The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight

Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, but gold that's put to use more gold begets.