Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week, Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.
Love moderately. Long love doth so. Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow. *Love each other in moderation. That is the key to long-lasting love. Too fast is as bad as too slow.*