Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil
The Eyes are the window to your soul
A little water clears us of this deed.
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
These blessed candles of the night.
I am a feather for each wind that blows