The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.

If I for my opinion bleed, opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt, and keep me on the side where still I am.

Alas, their love may be call'd appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate

So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.

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.

If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark

Experience teacheth that resolution is a sole help in need.