And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.
Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
So fair and foul a day i had not seen.
He is the half part of a blessed man, Left to be finished by such as she; And she a fair divided excellence, Whose fullness of perfection lies in him.
Juliet is the east and i am the sun.
What are you doing sister? / Killing swine.
I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)
it is not enough to speak, but to speak truee
Which can say more than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? O, stay and hear; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low: Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. What is love? 'Tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies not plenty; Then, come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.
A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
They are but beggars that can count their worth.
He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead. Go to thy deathbed. He never will come again.
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.
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade.
Tis safter to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.
Why what a fool was I to this drunken monster for a God. - Caliban
If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!
Enough no more; Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet Though to itself it only live and die
Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me And tune his merry note, Unto the sweet bird's throat; Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.
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