Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor

'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!

Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief

Women are not In their best fortunes strong, but want will perjure the ne'er-touched vestal.

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

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.

This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven.