Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
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.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!
Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
where civil blood makes civil hands unclean
All is well that ends well
What light through yonder window breaks?
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. . . .
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.
One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.
Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
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.
These violent delights have violent ends.
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.
For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
I'll look to like; if looking, liking move.
Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.
These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume
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 -
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.
All's well that ends well.
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