“Let us not burthen our remembrance withA heaviness that's gone.”

“Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear”

“Lay these Bones in an unworthy Urn,Tombless, with no Remembrance over them.”

“Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us that are squires of the night’s body be called thieves of the day’s beauty. Let us be Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon, and let men say we be men of good government, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal.”

“Conscience is but a word that cowards use,Devis'd at first to keep the strong in awe:Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law.March on, join bravely, let us to't pell-mell;If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell.”

“Too much of water hast thou poor Ophelia, and therefore I forbid my tears.But yet it is our trick, let shame say what it will. when these are gone the women will be out!Adieu my lord, I have a speech of fire that fane would blaze, But that this folly doubts it.”

“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.”