Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity.
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.
Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
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 -
For you and I are past our dancing days.
Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
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.
These violent delights have violent ends.
How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath?
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.
He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
All's well that ends well.
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. . . .
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!
My love is deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, both are infinite.
Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?
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.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
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.
One fire burns out another's burning, One pain is lessen'd by another's anguish.
I'll look to like; if looking, liking move.
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
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