Romeo and Juliet quotes

Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; Whose misadventured piteous overthrows Do with their death bury their parents’ strife.

I do but keep the peace: put up thy sword, Or manage it to part these men with me.

What, drawn, and talk of peace! I hate the word, As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:

Have at thee, coward! They fight.

Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will! Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here? Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.

Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love.

Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O anything, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!

Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here? Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love. Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O anything, of nothing first create!

O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!

Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this. Dost thou not laugh?

Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love. Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O anything, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!

Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!

This love feel I, that feel no love in this. Dost thou not laugh?

this love that thou hast shown Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; Being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:

What is it else? a madness most discreet, A choking gall and a preserving sweet.

Farewell, my coz.

Soft! I will go along; An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

Tut, I have lost myself; I am not here; This is not Romeo, he’s some other where.

Tell me in sadness, who is that you love.

Be ruled by me, forget to think of her.

O, teach me how I should forget to think.

By giving liberty unto thine eyes; Examine other beauties.

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.

but I am sent to find those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what names the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned.—In good time.

Tut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning, One pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish;

Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning; One desperate grief cures with another’s languish: Take thou some new infection to thy eye, And the rank poison of the old will die.

That book in many’s eyes doth share the glory, That in gold clasps locks in the golden story; So shall you share all that he doth possess, By having him, making yourself no less.

No less! nay, bigger; women grow by men.

Speak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love?

We follow thee. Exit Servant. Juliet, the county stays.

Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.

Exeunt.

Is love a tender thing? it is too rough, Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

If love be rough with you, be rough with love; Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.

Give me a case to put my visage in: A visor for a visor! what care I What curious eye doth quote deformities? Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me.

Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace! Thou talk’st of nothing.

True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,

Which is as thin of substance as the air And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence, Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.

To a Servingman. What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand Of yonder knight?

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear;

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows. The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand, And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows. The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand, And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.

Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.

This, by his voice, should be a Montague. Fetch me my rapier, boy. What dares the slave, Come hither, cover’d with an antic face, To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?

Then have my lips the sin that they have took.

Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.

You kiss by the book.

Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.

You kiss by the book.

Madam, your mother craves a word with you.

His name is Romeo, and a Montague; The only son of your great enemy.

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

Prodigious birth of love it is to me, That I must love a loathed enemy.

Go, then; for ’tis in vain To seek him here that means not to be found. Exeunt.

He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

Juliet appears above at a window. But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

He jests at scars that never felt a wound. Juliet appears above at a window.

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious;

… art As glorious to this night, being o’er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the air.

O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?

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.

’Tis but thy name that is my enemy; Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!

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

So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, And for that name which is no part of thee Take all myself.

How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, And the place death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here.

With love’s light wings did I o’er-perch these walls; For stony limits cannot hold love out,

And what love can do that dares love attempt; Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.

If they do see thee, they will murder thee.

Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords:

look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity.

By love, who first did prompt me to inquire; He lent me counsel and I lent him eyes.

I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far As that vast shore wash’d with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise.

Thou know’st the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny What I have spoke: but farewell compliment!

Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops—

O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb,

Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night:

It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say “It lightens.”

Sweet, good night! This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night! as sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart as that within my breast!

But to be frank, and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have:

My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite.

Nurse calls within. I hear some noise within; dear love, adieu! Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true. Stay but a little, I will come again. Exit, above.

A thousand times the worse, to want thy light.

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

Retiring.

Sweet, so would I: Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.

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

Exit above.

Sweet, so would I: Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow. Exit above.

Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!

Hence will I to my ghostly father’s cell, His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. Exit.

Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye, The day to cheer and night’s dank dew to dry, I must up-fill this osier cage of ours With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.

The earth that’s nature’s mother is her tomb; What is her burying grave that is her womb,

And from her womb children of divers kind We sucking on her natural bosom find, Many for many virtues excellent, None but for some and yet all different. O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities:

For nought so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give, Nor aught so good but strain’d from that fair use Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse:

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied; And vice sometimes by action dignified.

Within the infant rind of this small flower Poison hath residence and medicine power: For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part; Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.

Benedicite! What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper’d head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed:

Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie;

But where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign: Therefore thy earliness doth me assure Thou art up-roused by some distemperature;

Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;

Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.

Then plainly know my heart’s dear love is set On the fair daughter of rich Capulet: As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine; And all combined, save what thou must combine By holy marriage:

O, she knew well

Thy love did read by rote and could not spell.

But come, young waverer, come, go with me, In one respect I’ll thy assistant be; For this alliance may so happy prove, To turn your households’ rancour to pure love.

O, let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.

Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.

Exeunt.

Do thou but close our hands with holy words, Then love-devouring death do what he dare; It is enough I may but call her mine.

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.

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.

Here comes the lady: O, so light a foot Will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint: A lover may bestride the gossamer That idles in the wanton summer air, And yet not fall; so light is vanity.

Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his substance, not of ornament:

They are but beggars that can count their worth; But my true love is grown to such excess I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.

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. Exeunt.

thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes: what eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel?

Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling:

thou hast quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun: didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter?

I am hurt.

A plague o’ both your houses!

I am sped. Is he gone, and hath nothing?

Romeo, away, be gone! The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain. Stand not amazed: the prince will doom thee death, If thou art taken: hence, be gone, away!

O, I am fortune’s fool!

Why dost thou stay? Exit Romeo.

till strange love, grown bold, Think true love acted simple modesty. Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night; For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow on a raven’s back.

Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow’d night, Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.

O, I have bought the mansion of a love, But not possess’d it, and, though I am sold, Not yet enjoy’d:

All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then? Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death, That murder’d me: I would forget it fain; But, O, it presses to my memory, Like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds: “Tybalt is dead, and Romeo—banished;”

That “banished,” that one word “banished,” Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts.

Tybalt’s death Was woe enough, if it had ended there:

Hence from Verona art thou banished: Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.

There is no world without Verona walls, But purgatory, torture, hell itself.

Hence-banished is banish’d from the world, And world’s exile is death: then banished, Is death mis-term’d: calling death banishment, Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe, And smilest upon the stroke that murders me.

I’ll give thee armour to keep off that word; Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy, To comfort thee, though thou art banished.

Yet “banished”? Hang up philosophy! Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a prince’s doom,

It helps not, it prevails not: talk no more.

Enter Romeo and Juliet above, at the window.

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.

It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:

Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.

I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east: Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.

I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I: It is some meteor that the sun exhales, To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, And light thee on thy way to Mantua: Therefore stay yet; thou need’st not to be gone.

Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes; O, now I would they had changed voices too! Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day. O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.

More light and light; more dark and dark our woes!

Enter Nurse, to the chamber.

How now, how now, chop-logic! What is this? “Proud,” and “I thank you,” and “I thank you not;” And yet “not proud:” mistress minion, you,

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, Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage! You tallow-face!

An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, For, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee good: Trust to’t, bethink you; I’ll not be forsworn. Exit.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?

O, sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week; Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.

No matter: get thee gone, And hire those horses; I’ll be with thee straight. Exit Balthasar. Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night. Let’s see for means:

O mischief, thou art swift To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!

I do remember an apothecary— And hereabouts he dwells—which late I noted In tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of simples; meagre were his looks, Sharp misery had worn him to the bones:

The world is not thy friend nor the world’s law; The world affords no law to make thee rich; Then be not poor, but break it, and take this.

My poverty, but not my will, consents.

I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.

Put this in any liquid thing you will, And drink it off; and, if you had the strength Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight.

There is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.

I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. Farewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet’s grave; for there must I use thee. Exeunt.