Relationships and Family

They surfeited with honey and began To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little More than a little is by much too much.

I understand thy kisses and thou mine, And that’s a feeling disputation.

To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose, And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke.

See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love.

For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

Therefore love moderately; long love doth so; Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

These violent delights have violent ends.

These violent delights have violent ends.

And yet no further than a wanton’s bird, Who lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.

How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears!

Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books; But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.

This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.

It is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say it lightens.

Romeo: Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops— Juliet: O! swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry.

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond.

Than those that have more cunning to be strange.

They say, Jove laughs.

For stony limits cannot hold love out.

What’s in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.

O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? 12 Deny thy father, and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.

See! how she leans her cheek upon her hand: O! that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek.

He jests at scars, that never felt a wound. But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!

My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late!