1 Away, be gone; the sport is at the best.
2 O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had.
3 Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.
4 Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, I think it best you married with the County.
5 She's not well married that lives married long, But she's best married that dies married young.
6 Lovers can see to do their amorous rites By their own beauties: or, if love be blind, It best agrees with night.
7 A pack of blessings light upon thy back; Happiness courts thee in her best array; But like a misshaped and sullen wench, Thou putt'st up thy Fortune and thy love.
8 Then as the manner of our country is, In thy best robes, uncover'd, on the bier, Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie.
9 Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary On this fair corse, and, as the custom is, And in her best array bear her to church; For though fond nature bids us all lament, Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment.
10 Tut, you saw her fair, none else being by, Herself pois'd with herself in either eye: But in that crystal scales let there be weigh'd Your lady's love against some other maid That I will show you shining at this feast, And she shall scant show well that now shows best.