1 Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.
2 These times of woe afford no tune to woo.
3 I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.
4 More light and light, more dark and dark our woes.
5 These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.
6 Tybalt's death Was woe enough, if it had ended there.
7 This day's black fate on mo days doth depend; This but begins the woe others must end.
8 I doubt it not, and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our time to come.
9 Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished, For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
10 Romeo is banished, There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, In that word's death, no words can that woe sound.
11 Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring, Your tributary drops belong to woe, Which you mistaking offer up to joy.
12 I am too sore enpierced with his shaft To soar with his light feathers, and so bound, I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe.
13 O woe, thy canopy is dust and stones, Which with sweet water nightly I will dew, Or wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans.
14 We see the ground whereon these woes do lie, But the true ground of all these piteous woes We cannot without circumstance descry.
15 Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while, Till we can clear these ambiguities, And know their spring, their head, their true descent, And then will I be general of your woes, And lead you even to death.