How now, wit! Whither wander you?
Such antics do not amount to a man.
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.
The tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony.
The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.
She is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.