They Have A Plentiful Lack Of Wit.

Romeo There Is Thy Gold, Worse Poison To Men's Souls, Doing More Murders In This Loathsome World, Than These Poor Compounds That Thou Mayst Not Sell. I Sell Thee Poison; Thou Hast Sold Me None. Farewell: Buy Food, And Get Thyself In Flesh. Come, Cordial And Not Poison, Go With Me To Juliet's Grave; For There Must I Use Thee.

Moderate Lamentation Is The Right Of The Dead, Excessive Grief The Enemy To The Living.

To Be Merry Best Becomes You; For, Out Of Question, You Were Born In A Merry Hour.

They Say Best Men Are Molded Out Of Faults, And, For The Most, Become Much More The Better For Being A Little Bad

Lady, With Me, With Me Thy Fortune Lies.