He Kills Her In Her Own Humor.

A Glooming Peace This Morning With It Brings; The Sun, For Sorrow, Will Not Show His Head: Go Hence, To Have More Talk Of These Sad Things; Some Shall Be Pardon'd, And Some Punished: For Never Was A Story Of More Woe Than This Of Juliet And Her Romeo.

Dissembling Harlot, Thou Art False In All!

And All This Day An Unaccustomed Spirit Lifts Me Above The Ground With Cheerful Thoughts.

Did My Heart Love Till Now? Forswear It, Sight! For I Ne'er Saw True Beauty Till This Night.

Heaven Give You Many, Many Merry Days.