A Poor Thing, Perhaps, But My Own.

You Undergo Too Strict A Paradox, Striving To Make An Ugly Deed Look Fair.

For Mercutio's Soul Is But A Little Way Above Our Heads, Staying For Thine To Keep Him Company: Either Thou, Or I, Or Both, Must Go With Him.

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent.

You Kiss By Th' Book.

He Uses His Folly Like A Stalking-horse, And Under The Presentation Of That He Shoots His Wit.