The prize of all too precious you.

O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with passion would I shake the world.

Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!

Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.

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.

I have no other but a woman's reason: I think him so, because I think him so.

This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-Paradise.