Come, come with me, and we will make short work. For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone Till holy church incorporate two in one.
These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which, as they kiss, consume. The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite. Therefore love moderately. Long love doth so. Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o' both your houses!
More light and light, more dark and dark our woes!
Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear. Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, But thankful even for hate that is meant love.
How, will she none? Doth she not give us thanks? Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blessed, Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought So worthy a gentleman to be her bride?
Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, But fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next To go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church
Tell me not, Friar, that thou hear’st of this, Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it. If in thy wisdom thou canst give no help, Do thou but call my resolution wise, And with this knife I’ll help it presently. (shows him a knife)
Take thou this vial, being then in bed, And this distillèd liquor drink thou off, When presently through all thy veins shall run A cold and drowsy humor, for no pulse In the meantime, against thou shalt awake, Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift, And hither shall he come, and he and I Will watch thy waking, and that very night
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 pardoned, and some punishèd. For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain, And Romeo dead, and Juliet, dead before, Warm and new killed.