“I pray thee, cease thy counsel,Which falls into mine ears as profitlessAs water in a sieve: give not me counsel;Nor let no comforter delight mine earBut such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine:... for, brother, menCan counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,Their counsel turns to passion, which beforeWould give preceptial medicine to rage,Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,Charm ache with air and agony with words.No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patienceTo those that wring under the load of sorrow,But no man's virtue nor sufficiencyTo be so moral when he shall endureThe like himself. Therefore give me no counsel:My griefs cry louder than advertisement.”

“Cease thy counsel, for thy words fall into my ears as priceless as water into a sieve.”

“I'll lock thy heaven from thee. O, that men's ears should be To counsel deaf, but not to flattery!”

“In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note; But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise, Who in despite of view is pleased to dote; Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted, Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone, Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited To any sensual feast* with thee alone*: But my five wits* nor my five senses can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man*, Thy proud hearts slave and vassal wretch to be: Only my plague thus far I count my gain, That she that makes me sin awards me pain.”

“Tis but thy name that is my enemy;Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,Nor arm, nor face, nor any other partBelonging to a man. O, be some other name!What’s in a name? that which we call a roseBy any other name would smell as sweet;So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,Retain that dear perfection which he owesWithout that title. Romeo, doff thy name,And for that name which is no part of theeTake all myself.I take thee at thy word:Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized;Henceforth I never will be Romeo.What man art thou that thus bescreen’din nightSo stumblest on my counsel?By a nameI know not how to tell thee who I am:My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,Because it is an enemy to thee;Had I it written, I would tear the word.My ears have not yet drunk a hundred wordsOf that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound:”

“Pause awhile, And let my counsel sway you.”

“Seems," madam? Nay, it is; I know not "seems."'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage,Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly: these indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play: But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe.”