Murder most foul, as in the best it it; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

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.

O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!

I was too young that time to value her, But now I know her. If she be a traitor, Why, so am I. We still have slept together, Rose at an instant, learned, played, eat together, And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans, Still we went coupled and inseparable.

He that is strucken blind can not forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost.

I had rather live with cheese and garlic in a windmill.

Plain and not honest is too harsh a style.