When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.
O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love... 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy; What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
He that hath the steerage of my course, Direct my sail.
True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.
Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.
she shall scant show well that now shows best.
I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
These violent delights have violent ends.
If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?
How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath?
He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.
Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.
where civil blood makes civil hands unclean
All is well that ends well
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!
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