These violent delights have violent ends.
Wisely and slow: they stumble that run fast.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.
O, she knew well thy love did read by rote, that could not spell.
Young men’s love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Within my holy cell, my books and myself alone shall be my company.
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied.
Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
Give me my Romeo, and, when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars.
These violent delights have violent ends.
Romeo: By heaven, I love thee. Friar Lawrence: So smile the heavens upon this holy act.
This alliance may so happy prove to turn your households’ rancor to pure love.
Young men’s love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Friar Lawrence: This marriage may be fortunate, but it is taint to me. Romeo: And trust me, love, in my eye so do you.
The earth that’s nature’s mother is her tomb.
These violent delights have violent ends.
So smile the heavens upon this holy act, that after-hours with sorrow chide us not!
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied.
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, and vice sometimes by action dignified.
Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied.
Wisely and slow: they stumble that run fast.
Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous.
This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not.
O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies in plants, herbs, stones.
The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night.
Give me my Romeo, and when I shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars.
My poverty but not my will consents.
Not body’s death, but body’s banishment.
Those words were mine. Give me my Romeo.
So wake, when I am gone; for I must die.
Thy face is mine, and thou hast slandered it.
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied.
Affliction is enamored of thy parts.
Of adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy.
There is no world without Verona’s walls.
O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick.
I will be brief, for my short date of breath is not so long as is a tedious tale.
Go get thee to thy love, as was decreed.
More than tears, with that recordation.
Friar Lawrence: Hold thy desperate hand. Romeo: The world is not thy friend.
Take thou this vial.
Poison hath residence, and medicine power.
Thy Juliet is alive, for whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead.
Such mortal drugs I have.
Myself condemned, and myself excused.
The world is not thy friend nor the world’s law.
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