Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich being poor;
Most choice, forsaken; and most loved, despised,
Is it but this—a tardiness in nature
Which often leaves the history unspoke
That it intends to do?—My lord of Burgundy,
Now, our joy,
Although our last and least, to whose young love
The vines of France and milk of Burgundy
Strive to be interessed,
Now tell me, madam, do you love your children?
Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus’ lodging. Such a wagoner
As Phaëton would whip you to the west
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still.
The better angel is a man right fair,
Let me choose,
For as I am, I live upon the rack.
Upon the rack,
Enter Mariana, and Boy singing.
Take, O take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn,
Come, come, I’ll hear no more of this. I’ll
sing you a song now.
Enter Orlando, carrying Adam.
Welcome. Set down your venerable burden,
And let him feed.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek
Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling when
all is done. Now, a song!
Sir Toby Belch,
Tomorrow is the joyful day, Audrey. Tomorrow
will we be married.
I do desire it with all my heart,
Now, my young guest, methinks you’re allycholly.
I pray you, why is it?
We are wise girls to mock our lovers so.
They are worse fools to purchase mocking so.
Have at you, then, affection’s men-at-arms!
O, we have made a vow to study, lords,
And in that vow we have forsworn our books.
I love and hate her; for she’s fair and royal,
And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite
Is’t possible that on so little acquaintance you should like her? That but seeing, you should love her?
Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her?
Forever and a day.
Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
Who ever lov’d that lov’d not at first sight?
I pray you do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine.
O Corin, that thou knew’st how I do love her!
I partly guess;
O, how full of briers is this working-day world!
They are but burs,
Beauty, truth, and rarity,
Grace in all simplicity,
Here enclosed, in cinders lie.
Here the anthem doth commence:
Love and constancy is dead,
Phoenix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.
Lo! She is one of this confederacy.
Now I perceive, they have conjoin’d all three
To fashion this false sport,
When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie,
And young affection gapes to be his heir;
That fair for which love groan’d for and would die,
If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrineMetaphor,
Ha! Not for the wide world.
You kill me to deny it.
Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
I do love nothing in the world so well as you—is not that strange?
As strange as the thing I know not.
I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes;Parallelism and moreover I will go with thee to thy uncle’sBathos.
O Hero, what a Hero hadst thou been
If half thy outward graces had been placed
About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart!
Speak low if you speak love.
Time goes on crutches till love have all his ritesPersonification.
It is thyself, mine own self’s better part:
Mine eye’s clear eye, my dear heart’s dearer heart,Anaphora and Antanaclasis
The time was onceHyperbaton when thou unurged wouldst vowAnastrophe
That never words were music to thine ear,
Where be these enemies? Capulet! Montague!
See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love.
Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,
Brags of his substance, not of ornament.
They are but beggars that can count their worth,
These violent delights have violent ends,
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which as they kiss consume.
Young men’s love then lies
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night,Alliteration
Like softest music to attending ears!
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,Simili
My love as deep;Ellipsis the more I give to thee,
Lady, by yonder blessèd moon I vow,
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops—
O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;
Or, if thou wilt not,
My only love sprung from my only hate!Paradox
Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
As a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear—Simili
Beauty too rich for use,
Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudgeParenthesis break to new mutiny,
Women will love her, that she is a woman
More worth than any man; men, that she is
The rarest of all womenEllipsis
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Joy, gentle friends, joy and fresh days of love
Accompany your hearts!
More strange than true. I never may believe
These antic fables, nor these fairy toys.
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
When in that moment (so it came to pass)
Titania wak’d, and straightway lov’d an ass.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity,
Love can transpose to form and dignity.
Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind;
Love is a spirit all compact of fire.
A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.
Love all, trust a few,
Do wrong to noneParallelism. Be able for thine enemy
Rather in power than use,
Give me some music; music, moody food
Of us that trade in love.
To me fair friend you never can be old
For as you were when first your eye I eyed
Such is your beauty still.
What is love? ’Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What’s to come is still unsure.
Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love.Hendiadys
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues.
If music be the food of love, play on.
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken and so die.
Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting.