Go Hang Yourself, You Naughty Mocking Uncle!

And All My Mother Came Into Mine Eyes And Gave Me Up To Tears.

Be Not Afeard; The Isle Is Full Of Noises.

But We Have Reason To Cool Our Raging Motions, Our Carnal Stings, Our Unbitted Lusts; Whereof I Take This That You Call Love To Bea Sect Or Scion.... It Is Merely A Lust Of The Blood And A Permission Of The Will.

A Glooming Peace This Morning With It Brings; The Sun, For Sorrow, Will Not Show His Head: Go Hence, To Have More Talk Of These Sad Things; Some Shall Be Pardon'd, And Some Punished: For Never Was A Story Of More Woe Than This Of Juliet And Her Romeo.

When My Love Swears That She Is Made Of Truth, I Do Believe Her, Though I Know She Lies.