Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume
A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
They may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty, Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin.
True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.
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.
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.
Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
where civil blood makes civil hands unclean
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 Do with their death bury their parents' strife.
All's well that ends well.
Speak low, if you speak love.
What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?
Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight
Out of her favour, where I am in love.
It is my soul that calls upon my name; How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, like softest music to attending ears! -Romeo
A gentleman that loves to hear himself talk, will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month.
There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
My only love sprung from my only hate.
Young men's love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
The Brightness of her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing, and think it were not night.
You are a lover. Borrow Cupid's wings and soar with them above a common bound.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
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