Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.
My love is deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, both are infinite.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness.
Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
If music be the food of love, play on.
Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.
Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will!
What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
it is my lady! *sighs* o, it is my love! o, that she knew she were! she speaks, yet she sais nothing. what of that? her eye discourses; i will answer it. i am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks; two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return.
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. - Romeo -
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. 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. Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my lady, O, it is my love! Oh, that she knew she were!
For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!
One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.
He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
Love moderately; long love doth so; too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
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.
Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
These violent delights have violent ends.
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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