You Jig, you amble, and you lisp.
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
Glory grows guilty of detested crimes.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond.
Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining.
Honour travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast.