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Gardens

But flowers distill’d, though they with winter meet

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But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show, their substance still lives sweet.


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If music be the food of love

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If music be the food of love, play on.
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken and so die.
That strain again! It had a dying fall.
O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odor. Enough; no more.
‘Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
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Source:
Act 1
Scene 1
Line 1

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O, where is Romeo? Saw you him today?

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Lady Montague
O, where is Romeo? Saw you him today?
Right glad I am he was not at this fray.
Benvolio
Madam, an hour before the worshiped sun
Peered forth the golden window of the east,
A troubled mind drove me to walk abroad,
Where underneath the grove of sycamore
That westward rooteth from this city side,
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Source:
Act 1
Scene 1
Line 118

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O that this too too solid flesh would melt

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O, that this too too sullied flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!Epizeuxis & Metaphor

Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d
His canon ‘gainst self-slaughter!Metonymy
O God, God,
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!Apostrophe & Epizeuxis

O God,
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Though other things grow fair against the sun

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Though other things grow fair against the sun,
Yet fruits that blossom first will first be ripe.
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Source:
Act 2
Scene 3

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The gray-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night

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The gray-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,Personification
Check’ring the eastern clouds with streaks of light,
And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reelsSimile
From forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels.Allusion

The earth that’s nature’s mother is her tomb;
What is her burying grave,
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Gentle madam, You never had a servant

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Widow
Gentle madam,
You never had a servant to whose trust
Your business was more welcome.

But with the word the time will bring on summer,
When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns,
And be as sweet as sharp.

Helen
Nor you, mistress,
Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labor
To recompense your love.
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Source:
Act 4
Scene 4
Line 15

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