Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies.
Why, who cries out on pride that can therein tax any private party? Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea till the weary very means do ebb?
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.
Nimble thought can jump both sea and land.
A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.