If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.
thus with a kiss I die
Speak low, if you speak love.
For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me, That I must love a loathed enemy.
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