But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Every why hath a wherefore.
I am a man more sinned against than sinning
O mischief, thou art swift to enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
Tempt not a desperate man
What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?