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part, fools! put up your swords. you know not what you do
what, drawn, and talk about piece? I hate the word, as I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.
But saying o'er what I have said before. My child is yet a stranger in the world. She hath not seen the change of fourteen years. Let two more summers wither in their pride Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride
Younger than she are happy mothers made.
Marry, that “marry” is the very theme I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your disposition to be married?
It is an honor that I dream not of.
If I profane with my unworthiness hand This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this, For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
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