Shakespeare's Tragedy of Romeo & Juliet

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J.M. Dent and Company, 1905 - Juliet (Fictitious character) - 158 pages
 

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Page 76 - 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.
Page 32 - Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers
Page 39 - 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 called, Retain that dear perfection which he owes, Without that title.
Page 43 - 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.
Page 43 - 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.
Page 39 - Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright That birds would sing and think it were not night. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand. That I might touch that cheek!
Page 25 - O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. ) She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep : Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners...
Page 70 - tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door ; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve : ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o...
Page 92 - 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.
Page 47 - 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...

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