Seems," madam? Nay, it is; I know not "seems." 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly: these indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play: But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

If they love they know not why, they hate upon no better ground, they hate upon no better a ground

The Eyes are the window to your soul

If she lives till doomsday, she'll burn a week longer than the whole world.

Memory, the warder of the brain.

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.

Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear