In Thy Youth Wast As True A

O Heaven! Were Man, But Constant, He Were Perfect.

The Thing Of Courage As Rous'd With Rage Doth Sympathise, And, With An Accent Tun'd In Self-same Key, Retorts To Chiding Fortune.

A Wicked Conscience Mouldeth Goblins Swift As Frenzy Thoughts.

To Fear The Worst Oft Cures The Worst.

Romeo There Is Thy Gold, Worse Poison To Men's Souls, Doing More Murders In This Loathsome World, Than These Poor Compounds That Thou Mayst Not Sell. I Sell Thee Poison; Thou Hast Sold Me None. Farewell: Buy Food, And Get Thyself In Flesh. Come, Cordial And Not Poison, Go With Me To Juliet's Grave; For There Must I Use Thee.