Love's not love when it is mingled with regards that stand aloof from the entire point.
Love's not love when it is mingled with regards that stand aloof from the entire point.
I music be the food of love, play on
Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field, You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius! Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex: We cannot fight for love, as men ay do; We should be woo'd, and were not made to woo. I'll follow thee, and make a heaven of hell, To die upon the hand I love so well.
Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.- Joy, gentle friends! joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts!
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.
O me, you juggler, you canker-blossom, you thief of love!
O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, That he hath turn'd a heaven unto a hell!
Give me some music music, moody foodOf us that trade in love.
All thy vexations
Were but my trials of thy love, and thou
Hast strangely stood the test; here, afore heaven,
I ratify this my rich gift.
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
Nor nothing else with his proud sight agrees.
Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.
My brother's love, the devil, and my rage.
Now, for my life, she's wand'ring to the Tower,
On pure heart's love, to greet the tender Princes.
Of all the fair resort of gentlemen
That every day with parle encounter me,
In thy opinion which is worthiest love?
Now the fair goddess, Fortune,
Fall deep in love with thee, and her great charms
Misguide thy opposers' swords!
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love, loves not to have years told.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs. Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers eyes. Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers tears. What is it else A madness most discreet, a choking gall and a preserving sweet.
O, no, thy love, though much, is not so great;
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake,
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake.
O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
"Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought
To march in ranks of better equipage;
But since he died and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.
It doth so, holy sir; and there's my master,
One that you love.
Love is your master, for he masters you;
And he that is so yoked by a fool,
Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise.
'Tis known, Achilles, that you are in love
With one of Priam's daughters.
Vexed I am
Of late with passions of some difference,
Conceptions only proper to myself,
Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors;
But let not therefore my good friends be grieved-
Among which number, Cassius, be you one-
Nor construe any further my neglect
Than that poor Brutus with himself at war
Forgets the shows of love to other men.
O, what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
That which I show, heaven knows, is merely love,
Duty, and zeal, to your unmatched mind,
Care of your food and living; and believe it,
My most honour'd lord,
For any benefit that points to me,
Either in hope or present, I'd exchange
For this one wish, that you had power and wealth
To requite me by making rich yourself.
But say, Lucetta, now we are alone,
Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love?
Absence from those we love is self from self - a deadly banishment.
Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love;
For I do love her most unfeignedly.
And trust me, love, in my eye so do you.
'Tis not to save labour, nor that I want love.
I call'd my love false love; but what said he then?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent.
I never did
Offend you in my life; never loved Cassio
But with such general warranty of heaven
As I might love.
All is the fear and nothing is the love;
As little is the wisdom, where the flight
So runs against all reason.
As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.
Besides, our nearness to the King in love
Is near the hate of those love not the King.
No, Leonato,
I never tempted her with word too large,
But, as a brother to his sister, show'd
Bashful sincerity and comely love.
Her virtues, graced with external gifts,
Do breed love's settled passions in my heart;
And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts
Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide,
So am I driven by breath of her renown
Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive
Where I may have fruition of her love.
'Tis love you cavil at; I am not Love.
Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words
Can no way change you to a milder form,
I'll woo you like a soldier, at arms' end,
And love you 'gainst the nature of love- force ye.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity, love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eye, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
Speak low, if you speak love.
Love to faults is always blind, always is to joy inclined. Lawless, winged, and unconfined, and breaks all chains from every mind.
And she's fair I love.
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.
Th' ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love.
Warwick, these words have turn'd my hate to love;
And I forgive and quite forget old faults,
And joy that thou becom'st King Henry's friend.
Capulet, Montage,
See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love!
Master Brook; but the peaking cornuto her
husband, Master Brook, dwelling in a continual 'larum of
jealousy, comes me in the instant of our, encounter, after
we had embrac'd, kiss'd, protested, and, as it were, spoke
the prologue of our comedy; and at his heels a rabble of his
companions, thither provoked and instigated by his
distemper, and, forsooth, to search his house for his wife's
love.
Farewell, Monsieur Traveller; look you lisp and wear
strange suits, disable all the benefits of your own country, be
out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making
you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have
swam in a gondola.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories