O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, That he hath turn'd a heaven unto a hell!
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!
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.
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.
'Tis not to save labour, nor that I want love.
More William Shakespeare Quotations (Based on Topics)
Love - Man - Mind - Kings & Queens - World - Time - Life - God - Friendship - Death & Dying - Belief & Faith - Heaven - War & Peace - Fairness - Speaking - Fool - Night - Fear - Soul - View All William Shakespeare Quotations
More William Shakespeare Quotations (By Book Titles)
- A Midsummer Night's Dream
- As You Like It
- Julius Caesar
- King Lear
- Much Ado About Nothing
- The Merchant of Venice
- The Taming of the Shrew
- Twelfth Night
William Shakespeare - George Bernard Shaw - Richard Steele - Lady Gregory - John Fletcher - Jean Racine - Henry Porter - George Colman - Anton Chekhov - Alexandre Dumas