The gloomy shade of death.

New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous (Nay, let em be unmanly), yet are followed.

A scar nobly got is a good livery of honor.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week, Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.

O polished perturbation! golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night.

O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable

Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts- O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power So to seduce!