Thy Words, I Grant Are Bigger, For

Now No Way Can I Stray; Save Back To England, All The World's My Way.

These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends And In Their Triump Die, Like Fire And Powder Which, As They Kiss, Consume

Is There No Pity Sitting In The Clouds That Sees Into The Bottom Of My Grief? O Sweet My Mother, Cast Me Not Away! Delay This Marriage For A Month, A Week, Or If You Do Not, Make The Bridal Bed In That Dim Monument Where Tybalt Lies.

Women May Fall When There's No Strength In Men.

This Look Of Thine Will Hurl My Soul From Heaven.