Angels And Ministers Of Grace Defend Us.

You Are Yoked With A Lamb, That Carries Anger As The Flint Bears Fire; Who, Much Enforced, Shows A Hasty Spank, And Straight Is Cold Again.

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.

I Cannot Tell What You And Other Men Think Of This Life; But, For My Single Self, I Had As Lief Not Be As Live To Be In Awe Of Such A Thing As I Myself.

Misery Makes Sport To Mock Itself.

It Is A Basilisk Unto Mine Eye, Kills Me To Look On't.