He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man. He that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man, I am not for him.

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond.

He is winding the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike.

I feel it gone, yet know not when it left.

Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight

love is blind and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit

They told me I was everything. 'Tis a lie, I am not ague-proof.