She is a woman, therefore to be won.
Well, I will find you twenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week, Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!
Shall I never see a bachelor of three score again?
He makes a July's day short as December.