1 I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave.
2 Poor living corse, clos'd in a dead man's tomb.
3 Not in a grave To lay one in, another out to have.
4 No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent.
5 For this drivelling love is like a great natural, that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole.
6 I warrant you, I dare draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side.
7 A gentleman, Nurse, that loves to hear himself talk, and will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month.
8 Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death, And therefore have I little talk'd of love; For Venus smiles not in a house of tears.
9 Chain me with roaring bears; Or hide me nightly in a charnel-house, O'er-cover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones, With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls.
10 But first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her in a fool's paradise, as they say, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say; for the gentlewoman is young.
11 Going to find a barefoot brother out, One of our order, to associate me, Here in this city visiting the sick, And finding him, the searchers of the town, Suspecting that we both were in a house Where the infectious pestilence did reign, Seal'd up the doors, and would not let us forth, So that my speed to Mantua there was stay'd.
12 Thy noble shape is but a form of wax, Digressing from the valour of a man; Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish; Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Misshapen in the conduct of them both, Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask, Is set afire by thine own ignorance, And thou dismember'd with thine own defence.