for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.
Love for thy love , and hand for hand I give.
Slander, whose whisper over the world's diameter, as level as the cannon to its blank, transports its poisoned shot.
When the age is in, the wit is out
You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame
The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.