Grief makes one hour ten.
Love bears it out even to the edge of doom.
Many strokes, though with a little axe, hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.
Receive what cheer you may. The night is long that never finds the day.
Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you, trippingly on the tongue.
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.