If thou art rich, thou art poor; for, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey, and death unloads thee.

The small amount of foolery wise men have makes a great show.

Weed your better judgments of all opinion that grows rank in them.

Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death.

All is well ended if this suit be won. That you express content; which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day.

O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

ROMEO There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. Farewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee.