O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven
Glory is like a circle in the water
The sense of death is most in apprehension.
Cursed be he that moves my bones.
Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
Mercutio: "If love be rough with you, be rough with love.