Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices, That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open, and show riches Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked, I cried to dream again.

What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?

Haste is needful in a desperate case.

And she's fair I love.

What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her?

Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

His worst fault is, he's given to prayer; he is something peevish that way.