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The earth, that is nature's mother, is her tomb.
Sep 18, 2025
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
Can I go forward when my heart is here?
she shall scant show well that now shows best.
O teach me how I should forget to think (1.1.224)
for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.
Benvolio: What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours? Romeo: Not having that, which, having, makes them short.
What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?
With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out
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.
Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, but thankful even for hate that is meant love.
Benvolio- "By my head, here come the Capulets." Mercutio- "By my heel, I care not.
Seek happy nights to happy days.W
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
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, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh
Romeo: I dreamt a dream tonight. Mercutio: And so did I. Romeo: Well, what was yours? Mercutio: That dreamers often lie. Romeo: In bed asleep while they do dream things true.
Then love-devouring Death do what he dare.
O mischief, thou art swift to enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
You have dancing shoes with nimble soles. I have a soul of lead.
you saw her fair, none else being by, Herself pois'd with herself in either eye; But in that crystal scales let there be weigh'd Your lady's love against some other maid That I will show you shining at this feast, And she shall scant show well that now seems best.
I’ll look to like, if looking liking move; But no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
ROMEO There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. Farewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee.
Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O any thing, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity, Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.
Look, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder east! Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tip-toe on the misty mountain-tops.
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet
How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath?
True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.
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.
True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.
If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne, And all this day an unaccustomed spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
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.
Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.
He that is strucken blind can not forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost.
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?
The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law. - Romeo
Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.
Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.
O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
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. . . .
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. 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. Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my lady, O, it is my love! Oh, that she knew she were!
One fire burns out another's burning, One pain is lessen'd by another's anguish.
Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will!
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.
Nor aught so good but strained from that fair use, Revolts from true birth stumbling on abuse.
All's well that ends well.