For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up. Urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinched As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em.

Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs.

O teach me how I should forget to think (1.1.224)

My life, my joy, my food, my ail the world!

The empty vessel makes the loudest sound.

Two households, both alike in dignity In fair Verona, where we lay our scene From ancient grudge break to new mutiny Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life Whose misadventured piteous overthrows Do with their death bury their parents' strife.

Truth needs no color; beauty, no pencil.