By innocence I swear, and by my youth, I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, And that no woman has, nor never none Shall mistress be of it save I alone.

For trust not him that hath once broken faith

It is lost at dice, what ancient honor won.

A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

As full of spirit as the month of May, and as gorgeous as the sun in Midsummer.

Wolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.

If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear.