Romantic Love

If you remember’st not the slightest folly That ever love did make thee run into, Thou hast not lov’d.

You are my true and honorable wife, As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart.

Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply.

But love is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit.

My near’st and dearest enemy.

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

These violent delights have violent ends.

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

Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond.

Than those that have more cunning to be strange.

For stony limits cannot hold love out.

They say, Jove laughs.

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.

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!

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!