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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 misadventur'd piteous overthrows Doth with their death bury their parents' strife.
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.
Put up your swords. You know not what you do.
Many a morning hath he there been seen, With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew, Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;
Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, Too rude, too boist'rous, and it pricks like thorn.
My only love, sprung from my only hate!
Holy Saint Francis! What a change is here! Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear, So soon forsaken? Young men's love then lies Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
How much salt water thrown away in waste, To season love, that of it doth not taste!
How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath? The excuse that thou dost make in this delay Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse.
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.
Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring!
Then 'banishment' Is death misterm'd. Calling death 'banishment,' Thou cut'st my head off with a golden axe And smilest upon the stroke that murders me.
Some grief shows much of love; But much of grief shows still some want of wit.
