Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.
My love is deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, both are infinite.
My only love sprung from my only hate.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
What light through yonder window breaks?
Mercutio: "If love be rough with you, be rough with love.
I take thee at thy word: Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized; Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
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. . . .
These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite. Therefore love moderately; long love doth so; Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
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.
All is well that ends well
Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet
With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out
For you and I are past our dancing days.
Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond.
You are a lover. Borrow Cupid's wings and soar with them above a common bound.
Benvolio: What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours? Romeo: Not having that, which, having, makes them short.
Young men's love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears; what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
Don't waste your love on somebody, who doesn't value it.
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.
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