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.

No legacy is so rich as honesty.

A merry heart goes all the way, - A sad one tires inan hour.

Barnes are blessings.

Enough no more; Tis not so sweet now as it was before.

A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross.

She dreams of him that has forgot her love; You dote on her that cares not for your love. 'Tis pity love should be so contrary; And thinking of it makes me cry 'alas!