Because It Is A Customary Cross, As

Make The Upcoming Hour Overflow With Joy, And Let Pleasure Drown The Brim.

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.

Let Me Confess That We Two Must Be Twain, Although Our Undivided Loves Are One.

I Had Rather Have A Fool To Make Me Merry Than Experience To Make Me Sad And To Travel For It Too!

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears: But Yet It Is Our Trick; Nature Her Custom Holds, Let Shame Say What It Will: When These Are Gone, The Woman Will Be Out. — Adieu, My Lord! I Have A Speech Of Fire, That Fain Would Blaze, But That This Folly Drowns It.