In Truth, Fair Montague, I Am Too

I Am Such A Tender Ass, If My Hair Do But Tickle Me, I Must Scratch.

Let The Galled Jade Wince; Our Withers Are Unwrung.

I'll Make Death Love Me; For I Will Contend Even With His Pestilent Scythe.

Sometimes We Are Devils To Ourselves When We Will Tempt The Frailty Of Our Powers, Presuming On Their Changeful Potency.

These Times Of Woe Afford No Time To Woo.