O Wretched State! O Bosom Black As

So May The Outward Shows Be Least Themselves; The World Is Still Deceived With Ornament.

If Thou Engrossest All The Griefs Are Thine, Thou Robb'st Me Of A Moiety.

What's In A Name? That Which We Call A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell As Sweet.

Adieu! I Have Too Grieved A Heart To Take A Tedious Leave.

I Never Yet Did Hear, That The Bruis'd Heart Was Pierced Through The Ear