“The stroke of death is as a lover's pinchWhich hurts and is desired.”

“A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;Whole misadventured piteous overthrowsDo with their death bury their parents' strife.”

“Give me my robe, put on my crown; I haveImmortal longings in me: now no moreThe juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip:Yare, yare, good Iras; quick. Methinks I hearAntony call; I see him rouse himselfTo praise my noble act; I hear him mockThe luck of Caesar, which the gods give menTo excuse their after wrath: husband, I come:Now to that name my courage prove my title!I am fire and air; my other elementsI give to baser life. So; have you done?Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips.Farewell, kind Charmian; Iras, long farewell.Kisses them. IRAS falls and diesHave I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall?If thou and nature can so gently part,The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch,Which hurts, and is desired. Dost thou lie still?If thus thou vanishest, thou tell'st the worldIt is not worth leave-taking.”

“From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life,Whose misadventured piteous overthrows Doth with their death bury their parents’ strife. . . . O, I am fortune’s fool! . . . Then I defy you, stars.”

“Macbeth does murder sleep - the innocent sleep,Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care,The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, chief nourisher in life's feast.”

“Die Welt ist nirgends außer diesen Mauern;Nur Fegefeuer, Qual, die Hölle selbst.Von hier verbannt, ist aus der Welt verbannt,Und solcher Bann ist Tod: Drum gibst du ihmDen falschen Namen. - Nennst du Tod Verbannung,Enthauptest du mit goldnem Beile michUnd lächelst zu dem Streich, der mich ermordet.There is no world without Verona walls,But purgatory, torture, hell itself.Hence banishèd is banished from the world,And world's exile is death. Then "banishèd"Is death mistermed. Calling death "banishèd",Thou cuttest my head off with a golden axeAnd smilest upon the stroke that murders me.”

“Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie,And young affection gapes to be his heir;That fair for which love groan'd for and would die,With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair.Now Romeo is beloved and loves again,Alike betwitched by the charm of looks,But to his foe supposed he must complain,And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks:Being held a foe, he may not have accessTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;And she as much in love, her means much lessTo meet her new-beloved any where:But passion lends them power, time means, to meetTempering extremities with extreme sweet.”