A very scurvy fellow.

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

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

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.

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.

Men at sometime are the masters of their fate.

Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?