“It is my soul that calls upon my name;How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,like softest music to attending ears!-Romeo”

“How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, like softest music to attending ears.”

“O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father refuse thy name, thou art thyself thou not a montegue, what is montegue? tis nor hand nor foot nor any other part belonging to a man What is in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, So Romeo would were he not Romeo called retain such dear perfection to which he owes without that title, Romeo, Doth thy name! And for that name which is no part of thee, take all thyself.”

“Tis but thy name that is my enemy;Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,Nor arm, nor face, nor any other partBelonging to a man. O, be some other name!What’s in a name? that which we call a roseBy any other name would smell as sweet;So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,Retain that dear perfection which he owesWithout that title. Romeo, doff thy name,And for that name which is no part of theeTake all myself.I take thee at thy word:Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized;Henceforth I never will be Romeo.What man art thou that thus bescreen’din nightSo stumblest on my counsel?By a nameI know not how to tell thee who I am:My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,Because it is an enemy to thee;Had I it written, I would tear the word.My ears have not yet drunk a hundred wordsOf that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound:”

“O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.- Romeo -”

“Upon my tongues continual slanders ride,The which in every language I pronounce,Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.”

“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 odour! Enough; no more:'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou,That, notwithstanding thy capacityReceiveth as the sea, nought enters there,Of what validity and pitch soe'er,But falls into abatement and low price,Even in a minute: so full of shapes is fancyThat it alone is high fantastical.”