Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
A very scurvy fellow.
I am not mad; I would to heaven I were! For then, 'tis like I should forget myself; O, if I could, what grief should I forget!
How well he's read, to reason against reading!
Two women placed together makes cold weather.