Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor; for 'tis the mind that makes the body rich

What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her?

ROMEO There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. Farewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee.

This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh!

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.

The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown, is often left unloved.

An arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England.