More Options: Make a Folding Card

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  • Madam, I am not well. 
  • Evermore weeping for your cousin's death? Wilt though wash him from his grave with tears? Thou couldst not make him live; some grief shows much of love; But much grief shows still some want of wit. Though weep'st not so much for his death, as that the villain lives which slaughter'd him.
  • What villain, madam?
  • Villain and he be many miles asunder. - God pardon him! I do, with all my heart; and yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.
  • That same villain, Romeo.
  • We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not: then weep no more. I'll send to one in Mantua, where that same banish'd runagate doth lives; that he shall soon keep Tybalt company: and then, thou wilt be satisfied.
  • Indeed, I never shall be satisfied with Romeo, till I behold him -  dead - is my poor heart for a kinsman vex'd. Madam, if you could find out but a man to bear a poison, I would temper it; that Romeo should, upon receipt thereof, soon sleep in quiet. O' how my hear abhors to hear him named. and cannot come to him.
  • Well, though hast a careful father, child' one who. to put thee from thy heaviness, hath sorted out a sudden day of joy, that though expect'st not nor I look'd not for.
  • He shall not make me there a joyful bride. I wonder at this haste that I must wed he, that should be my husband. I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam, I will not marry yet; and, when I do, I swear, it shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate rather than Paris.
  • When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew; but for the sunset of my brother's son it rains downright. How now! A conduit, girl? What, still in tears? Thou counterfeit'st a bark, a sea, a wind; for still thy eyes, which I may call the sea, do flow with tears. How now, wife! Have you deliver'd to her our decree?
  • Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks. I would the fool were married to her grave!
  • How, now, chop-logic! What is this? "proud," and "I thank you," and "I thank you not"; and yet "not proud," mistress minion, you, thank me no thankings, nor, proud me no prouds. I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. Out, you green-sickness carrion! Out, you baggage! You tallow-face!
  • Not proud, you have; but thankful, that you have: proud can I never be of what I hate; but thankful even for hate, that is meant to love.
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