Why, such is love’s transgression. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest With more of thine: this love that thou hast shown Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; Being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears: What is it else? a madness most discreet, A choking gall and a preserving sweet. Farewell, my coz.

Soft! I will go along; An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

Tut, I have lost myself; I am not here; This is not Romeo, he’s some other where.

Groan! why, no; But sadly tell me who.

Bid a sick man in sadness make his will: Ah, word ill urged to one that is so ill! In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.