she shall scant show well that now shows best.
Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.
I am afeard there are few die well that die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is their argument?
No, no, I am but shadow of myself: You are deceived, my substance is not here.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond.
In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.