Explore the wonderful quotes under this tag
For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
Sep 17, 2025
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.
One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.
Love moderately; long love doth so; too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir.
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.
For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give.
Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
This day's black fate on more days doth depend; This but begins the woe, others must end.
where civil blood makes civil hands unclean
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.
My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me, That I must love a loathed enemy.
My only love sprung from my only hate.
These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
These violent delights have violent ends.
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 -
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week, Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear, Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand, And, touching hers, make blessèd my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
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.
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. . . .
Two households, both alike in dignity In fair Verona, where we lay our scene From ancient grudge break to new mutiny Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life Whose misadventured piteous overthrows Do with their death bury their parents' strife.
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.
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
What light through yonder window breaks?
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love... 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy; What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!
Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
Nor aught so good but strained from that fair use, Revolts from true birth stumbling on abuse.
All collections loaded