In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond.

Conscience is a thousand swords.

Greatest scandal waits on greatest state.

No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow, But no man's virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when he shall endure The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel: My griefs cry louder than advertisement.

The head is not more native to the heart.

O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note, to drown me in thy sister’s flood of tears.

I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it; knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence.