And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead. Go to thy deathbed. He never will come again.

Woe to that land that's governed by a child.

My charity is outrage, life my shame; And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume

Ay, but to die and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstrution and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.

Under loves heavy burden do I sink. --Romeo