ROMEO There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. Farewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee.

Die for adultery! No: The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight

Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!

Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.

Many strokes, though with a little axe, hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.

Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?

Love is like a child, That longs for everything it can come by