Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your dispositions to be married" It is an honor that I dream not of

When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes.

What's brave, what's noble, let's do it after the Roman fashion.

And by that destiny to perform an act Whereof what's past is prologue, what to come In yours and my discharge.

Haply for I am black, And have not those soft parts of conversation That chamberers have; or for I am declined Into the vale of years—yet that’s not much— She’s gone. I am abused, and my relief Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage, That we can call these delicate creatures ours And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad And live upon the vapor of a dungeon Than keep a corner in the thing I love For others’ uses. Yet ’tis the plague of great ones; Prerogatived are they less than the base. ’Tis destiny unshunnable, like death.

There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple. If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with't

Although the last, not least.