Within the book and volume of thy brain.
O' thinkest thou we shall ever meet again? I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our times to come.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond.
That affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence.
Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue but moody and dull melancholy, kinsman to grim and comfortless despair.
Travelers must be content.