Your lady mother is coming to your chamber (III.5.39).
O God, I have an ill-divining soul! Methinks I see thee, now art so low, as one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Either my eyesight fails or thou lookest pale. (III.5.54-57).
She gives you thanks. I would the fool were married to her grave (III.5.140-141).
Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blest, unworthy as she is, that we have wrought so worthy a gentleman to be her bride (III.5.144-146).
I think it best you married with the County. O, he's a lovely gentleman! Romeo's a dishclout to him (III.5.219-221).
Well, thou hast comforted me marvelous much. Go in; tell my lady I am gone, having displeased my father to Laurence' cell to make confession and to be absolved (III.5.232-235).
Night's candles are burnt out , and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain top (III.5.9-10).
Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear; nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. Believe me love, it was the nightingale (III.5.1-5).
Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn the gallant , young, and noble gentleman, the County Paris, at Saint Peter's Church, shall happily make thee there a joyful bride (III.5.113-116).
I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear it shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate, Rather than Paris (III.5.122-124).
Is there no pity in the clouds that sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away (III.5.198-200).
But fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next to go with Paris to Saint Peter's Church, or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither (III.5.154-156).
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me (III.5.190).