Besides, our nearness to the King in love
Is near the hate of those love not the King.
Besides, our nearness to the King in love
Is near the hate of those love not the King.
Capulet, Montage,
See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love!
If you do love my brother, hate not me;
I am his brother, and I love him well.
For thee against myself I'll vow debate,
For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.
Proud can I never be of what I hate,
But thankful even for hate that is meant love.
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving
Take her, fair son, and from her blood raise up
Issue to me; that the contending kingdoms
Of France and England, whose very shores look pale
With envy of each other's happiness,
May cease their hatred; and this dear conjunction
Plant neighbourhood and Christian-like accord
In their sweet bosoms, that never war advance
His bleeding sword 'twixt England and fair France.
And that is the wavering commons; for their love
Lies in their purses; and whoso empties them,
By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind:
Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind.
I am a true laborer I earn that I eat, get that I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness, glad of other men's good, content with my harm.
Here's much to do with hate, but more with love.
Gloucester, we have done deeds of charity,
Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate,
Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers.
If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune's bastard be unfathered,
As subject to Time's love or to Time's hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gathered.
To plead for love deserves more fee than hate.
Further I will not flatter you, my lord,
That all I see in you is worthy love,
Than this: that nothing do I see in you-
Though churlish thoughts themselves should be your judge-
That I can find should merit any hate.
If you can look into the seeds of time, And tell me which grain will grow and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favours nor your hate.
My only love, sprung from my only hate!
Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get that I
wear; owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness; glad of other
men's good, content with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is
to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck.
The love of wicked men converts to fear;
That fear to hate; and hate turns one or both
To worthy danger and deserved death.
For as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as tie heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me.
By heaven, my soul is purg'd from grudging hate;
And with my hand I seal my true heart's love.
Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne
To tyrannous hate!
Book both my wilfulness and errors down,
And on just proof surmise, accumulate;
Bring me within the level of your frown,
But shoot not at me in your wakened hate,
Since my appeal says I did strive to prove
The constancy and virtue of your love.
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?
Hastings and Rivers, take each other's hand;
Dissemble not your hatred, swear your love.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories