“A glooming peace this morning with it brings;The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished:For never was a story of more woeThan this of Juliet and her Romeo.”

“For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.”

“Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:It was the nightingale, and not the lark,That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear;Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree:Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn,No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaksDo lace the severing clouds in yonder east:Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund dayStands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops:I must be gone and live, or stay and die.Jul. Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:It is some meteor that the sun exhales,To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,And light thee on thy way to Mantua:Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone,Rom. Let me be ta'en,, let me be put to death;I am content, so thou wilt have it so.I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye,'T is but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beatThe vaulty heaven so high above our heads:I have more care to stay than will to go:Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so,How is't my soul? let's talk; it is not day.Jul. It is, it is; hie hence, be gone, away!It is the lark that sings so out of tune,Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.Some say the lark makes sweet division;This doth not so, for she divideth us:Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes;O! now I would they had changed voices too,Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,Hunting thee hence with hunt's up to the day.O! now be gone; more light and light it grows.Rom. More light and light; more dark and dark our woes.”

“Juliet is the east and i am the sun.”

“My lord constable, the armor that I saw in your tent to-night, are those stars or suns upon it?Con. Stars, my lord.Dau. Some of them will fall to-morrow, I hope.Con. And yet my sky shall not want.Dau. That may be, for you bear a many superfluously, and ’twere more honor some were away.Con. Even as your horse bears your praises; who would trot as well, were some of your brags dismounted.Henry V, 3.7.69-78”

“For God's sake, let us sit upon the groundAnd tell sad stories of the death of kings;How some have been deposed; some slain in war,Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;All murder'd: for within the hollow crownThat rounds the mortal temples of a kingKeeps Death his court and there the antic sits,Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,Allowing him a breath, a little scene,To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks,Infusing him with self and vain conceit,As if this flesh which walls about our life,Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thusComes at the last and with a little pinBores through his castle wall, and farewell king!”

“My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;Coral is far more red than her lips' red;If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,But no such roses see I in her cheeks;And in some perfumes is there more delightThan in the breath that from my mistress reeks.I love to hear her speak, yet well I knowThat music hath a far more pleasing sound;I grant I never saw a goddess go;My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.”