O comfortable friar! Where is my lord? I do remember well where I should be, and there I am. Where is my Romeo?

Friar Laurence:

O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies
In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities:
For nought to vile that on the earth doth live,
But to the earth some special good doth give; nor aught so good, but, strain'd from that fair use, Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse:
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,
And vice sometime's by action dignified.

I am as poor as Job, my lord, but not so patient.

O, pardon me, my lord! it oft falls out,To have what we would have, we speak not what we mean.I something do excuse the thing I hate.

Perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honor bright

What a disgrace it is to me to remember thy name.