Tears harden lust, though marble wear with raining.

Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your dispositions to be married" It is an honor that I dream not of

You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both.

Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.

I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, Perplexed in the extreme. . .

a girl takes too much time to love and a few seconds to hate. but a boy takes a few seconds to love and too much time to hate.

To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on.