The moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven.

I go, I go, look how I go, swifter than an arrow from a bow

In thy youth wast as true a lover, As ever sighed upon a midnight pillow

There is no sure foundation set on blood, No certain life achieved by others' death.

How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath?

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.

This is his uncle's teaching, this Worcester, Malevolent to you In all aspects, Which makes him prune himself and bristle up The crest of youth against your dignity.