If Love Be Blind, Love Cannot Hit

Beauty Itself Doth Of Itself Persuade The Eyes Of Men Without An Orator.

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.

O King, Believe Not This Hard-hearted Man!

To Persevere In Obstinate Condolement Is A Course Of Impious Stubbornness: 'tis Unmanly Grief.

The Evil That Men Do Lives After Them; The Good Is Oft Interred With Their Bones.