If love be rough with you, be rough with love.
I am hurt. A plague o’ both your houses!
Why, then is my pump well-flowered.
Dreamers often lie.
True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain.
O, I am fortune’s fool!
It is not so, I carry no hatred.
I am hurt. A plague o’ both your houses!
A plague o’ both your houses! They have made worms’ meat of me.
O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, And, if we meet, we shall not ‘scape a brawl, For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.
Shield pox all. Here’s goodly gear indeed.
And a light heart lives long.
He is a great wit, sir.
That dreamers often lie.
No, ’tis not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis enough, ’twill serve.
Why, king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives.
Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan’s the fairer of the two.
We talk here in the public haunt of men.
You are a lover; borrow Cupid’s wings, and soar with them above a common bound.
I will bite my thumb at them; which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it.
The fee-simple? O simple!
O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
An old hare hoar, and an old hare hoar is very good meat in Lent.
Nay, I’ll be sworn. I have more flesh than another man.
O, I have passed a miserable night, so full of ugly dreams.
Thou hast most kindly hit it.
Thou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of a tavern, claps me his sword upon the table and says ‘God send me no need of thee!’ and, by the operation of the second cup, draws it on the drawer when indeed there is no need.
Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo.
You are a lover. Borrow Cupid’s wings and soar with them above a common bound.
I conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes, by her high forehead and her scarlet lip.
Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead; stabbed with a white wench’s black eye, shot through the ear with a love song; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft.
More than Prince of Cats, I can tell you.”
Not I, believe me. You have dancing shoes with nimble soles. I have a soul of lead so stakes me to the ground, I cannot move.
But if you hurt me with words, I will weep.
You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.
You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me occasion.
We must have you dance.
We might see wives sliding in a slough of wine dregs.
For I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase: I’ll be a candle-holder and look on.
This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves.
His wit thou wound’st with thine own sharpeness.
Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo.
More than Prince of Cats, I can tell you.
Consort! What, dost thou make us minstrels? An thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick! Here’s that shall make you skip.
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