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!
These violent delights have violent ends.
For never was a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
Good Night, Good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
Give me my Romeo, and when I shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars.
Do not swear by the moon, for she changes constantly. Then your love would also change.
O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circled orb.
Love is a many splendid thing.
Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, but love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
Two households, both alike in dignity.
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!
What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!
Tis but thy name that is my enemy!
Parting is such sweet sorrow.
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep. The more I give thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.
Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
Wisely and slow, they stumble that run fast.
A plague o’ both your houses.
I dreamt my lady came and found me dead.
My only love sprung from my only hate!
O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!
Give me my Romeo. And, when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars.
I will kiss thy lips. Haply some poison yet doth hang on them, to make me die with a restorative.
These violent delights have violent ends.
Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs.
O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.
There is no world without Verona’s walls, but purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence-banished is banish’d from the world.
Why, such is love’s transgression. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, which thou wilt propagate to have it prest with more of thine.
Not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty.
I fear too early, for my mind misgives some consequence yet hanging in the stars.
Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
Love moderately; long love doth so.
That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
In delay there lies no plenty.
The sweetest honey is loathsome in his own deliciousness.
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