Not Stepping Over The Bounds Of Modesty.

Quote: What Angel Wakes Me From My Flowery Bed?

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.

Fill All Thy Bones With Aches.

At Christmas I No More Desire A Rose Than Wish A Snow In May's New-fangled Mirth; But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

Tis Much When Sceptres Are In Children's Hands, But More When Envy Breeds Unkind Division: There Comes The Ruin, There Begins Confusion.