When Once Our Grace We Have Forgot,

How Much More Doth Beauty Beauteous Seem By That Sweet Ornament Which Truth Doth Give!

Sufferance Is The Badge Of All Our Tribe.

Glory Grows Guilty Of Detested Crimes.

So Many Horrid Ghosts.

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.