Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
Give me that man that is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him in my heart’s core, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.
He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
O me, you juggler, you canker-blossom, you thief of love!
Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.
Is it not strange that sheep’s guts could hail souls out of men’s bodies?
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.
Tis within ourselves that we are thus or thus.
I say there is no darkness but ignorance.
Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.
They do not love, that do not show their love.
If I be waspish, best beware my sting.
Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.
It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
The small amount of foolery wise men have makes a great show.
Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under’t.
I am afeard there are few die well that die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is their argument?
And to be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour. BEATRICE No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born.