O, Thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint.

Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

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.

What is aught but as 'tis valued?

Sound trumpets! Let our bloody colours wave! And either victory, or else a grave.

I may neither choose who I would, nor refuse who I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father.

the time of life is short; To spend that shortness basely were too long.