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.

Un-thread the rude eye of rebellion, and welcome home again discarded faith.

A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*

The rest, is silence.

Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot.

If you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt.

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, to love that well which thou must leave ere long