He that hath the steerage of my course, Direct my sail.

O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent--sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, Such seems your beauty still.

for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.

Love asks me no questions, and gives me endless support.

And all this day an unaccustomed spirit lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.