These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume
Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
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.
for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.
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.
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.
Young men's love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
I’ll look to like, if looking liking move; But no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
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.
And all this day an unaccustomed spirit lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
You are a lover. Borrow Cupid's wings and soar with them above a common bound.
Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, but thankful even for hate that is meant love.
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?
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