Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty.

The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.

Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must.

Death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel: Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all

The fear's as bad as falling.

Patch grief with proverbs.