Death is a fearful thing.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men.
It is not night when I do see your face, Therefore I think I am not in the night; Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, For you in my respect are all the world: Then how can it be said I am alone, When all the world is here to look on me?
There's small choice in rotten apples.
Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?
The one I love is the son of the one I hate! -Juliet p. 75