My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.

What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?

Such men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous.

Love is . . . a madness most discreet

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.

Kent. Where's the king? Gent. Contending with the fretful elements; Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, Or swell the curled waters 'bove the main, That things might change or cease; tears his white hair, Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage, Catch in their fury and make nothing of; Strives in his little world of man to outscorn The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain. This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch, The lion and the belly-pinched wolf Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, And bids what will take all.