O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. . . . She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomi Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?
These violent delights have violent ends.
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
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.
One fire burns out another's burning, One pain is lessen'd by another's anguish.
All is well that ends well
where civil blood makes civil hands unclean
Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
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.
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.
Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.
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.
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! 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 -
Mercutio: "If love be rough with you, be rough with love.
What light through yonder window breaks?
My love is deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, both are infinite.
Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet
My only love sprung from my only hate.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
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