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.

In time we hate that which we often fear.

Gentle and low, an excellent thing in woman.

To sue to live, I find I seek to die; And, seeking death, find life: let it come on.

The summer's flower is to the summer sweet Though to itself it only live and die

Know more than other. Work more than other. Expect less than other

Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.