For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?
Words, words, words.
Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.
Men in rage strike those that wish them best.
I defy you, stars.
Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
What’s in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.
Oh, I am fortune’s fool!
I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.
I must be cruel only to be kind; Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.
People’s good deeds we write in water. The evil deeds are etched in brass.
O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frightened thee, 1710. That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Under loves heavy burden do I sink. – Romeo.
There was a star danced, and under that was I born.
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.
Beware the ides of March.
Sit by my side, and let the world slip: we shall ne’er be younger.
Like madness is the glory of life.
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.