O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
A plague o’ both your houses!
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow.
For never was a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
These violent delights have violent ends.
My only love sprung from my only hate!
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs.
Two households, both alike in dignity.
Give me my Romeo; and, when I shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand.
This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, may prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
O, speak again, bright angel! For thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven.
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden.
Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace!
Wisely and slow, they stumble that run fast.
Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books.
Love is a tender thing. It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
Young men’s love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Did my heart love till now? Forswear it sight, for I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.
Tempt not a desperate man.
A glooming peace this morning with it brings.
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return.
Virtue itself turns vice being misapplied, and vice sometime by action dignified.
True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain.
My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep. The more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.
It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on.
Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.
O happy dagger! This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die.
Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow.
The world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law.
But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
Love is a madness, and I seek no cure.
In fortune’s fool!
Love moderately. Long love doth so.
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Deny thy father and refuse thy name.
Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!
For stony limits cannot hold love out.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
O, swear not by the moon, th’ inconstant moon.
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear.
O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!
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