On pain of torture, from those bloody hands. Throw your mistemper'd weapons to the ground.
Let two more summers wither in their pride... Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride’.
Verona's summer hath not such a flower.
I have a soul of lead so stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
True. I talk of dreams - which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy, which is as thin of substance as the air and more inconstant than the wind.
My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! That I must love a loathed enemy...