In Truth, Fair Montague, I Am Too

To Die: - To Sleep: No More; And, By A Sleep To Say We End The Heart-ache And The Thousand Natural Shocks That Flesh Is Heir To, 'tis A Consummation Devoutly To Be Wished.

A Woman's Thought Runs Before Her Actions.

I Know A Place Where The Wild Thyme Blows, Where Oxlips And The Nodding Violet Grows.

We Are Time's Subjects, And Time Bids Be Gone.

Foul Words Is But Foul Wind, And Foul Wind Is But Foul Breath, And Foul Breath Is Noisome; Therefore I Will Depart Unkissed.