Silence Is The Perfect Herald Of Joy.

I Cannot Be A Man With Wishing, Therefore I Will Die A Woman With Grieving.

This England Never Did, Nor Never Shall, Lie At The Proud Foot Of A Conqueror, But When It First Did Help To Wound Itself. Now These Her Princes Are Come Home Again, Come The Three Corners Of The World In Arms, And We Shall Shock Them. Nought Shall Make Us Rue, If England To Itself Do Rest But True.

And Oftentimes, To Win Us To Our Harm, The Instruments Of Darkness Tell Us Truths, Win Us With Honest Trifles, To Betray's In Deepest Consequence

Mercutio: "if Love Be Rough With You, Be Rough With Love.

So Sweet Was Ne'er So Fatal. I Must Weep. But They Are Creul Tears. This Sorrow's Heavenly; It Strikes Where It Doth Love.