Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes,
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
Whose misadventured piteous overthrows,
Doth with their death bury their parents' strife.

James:

Oh, by the way, the same procedure as last year, Miss Sophie?

Miss Sophie:

Same procedure as every year, James.

Tom went on whitewashing -- Ben stared a moment and then said: "Hi-yi!" No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom's mouth watered for his apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said: "Hello, you got to work, hey?" Tom wheeled suddenly and said: "It's you, Ben! I warn't noticing." "I'm going in a-swimming. But of course you'd druther work." Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said: "What do you call work?" "Oh come, now, you don't mean to let on that you like it?" The brush continued to move. "Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?" "Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little." Tom considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind: "No -- no -- Aunt Polly's awful particular about this fence -- right here on the street, you know." "No -- is that so? Oh come, now -- lemme just try. I'll give you the core of my apple." "Well, here -- No, Ben, now don't. I'm afeard --" "I'll give you all of it!" Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his heart. And while Ben worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents.

Mark Twain

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