Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.

for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.

Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror

Patch up thine old body for heaven.

No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.

Sweet love! Sweet lines! Sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn

Lay on, McDuff, and be damned he who first cries, 'Hold, enough!