My only love sprung from my only hate. / Too early seen unknown and known too late.

Ay, ay, a scratch; marry, 'tis enough.

With Rosaline, my ghostly father? No; / I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.

She doth teach the torches to burn bright... / Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.

O happy dagger! This is they sheath; there rust, and let me die.

You kiss by the book.

Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed. / And I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.

These times of woe afford no time to woo. / Madam, good night. Commend me to your daughter.

What, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word / As I hate hell..and thee. Have at thee, coward!

Take this vial, being then in bed, / And this distilled liquor drink thou of.

For never was a story of more woe / Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

Many a morning hath he there been seen / With tears augmenting the fresh morning dew

Let two more summers wither in their pride / Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.

Death lies on her like an untimely frost / Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

...get thee to church o' Thursday / Or else never after look me in the face.

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