Capulet Quotes

This woman is Pocahontas. She is Athena and Hera. Lying in this messy, unmade bed, eyes closed, this is Juliet Capulet. Blanche DuBois. Scarlett O'Hara. With ministrations of lipstick and eyeliner I give birth to Ophelia. To Marie Antoinette. Over the next trip of the larger hand around the face of the bedside clock, I give form to Lucrezia Borgia. Taking shape at my fingertips, my touches of foundation and blush, here is Jocasta. Lying here, Lady Windermere. Opening her eyes, Cleopatra. Given flesh, a smile, swinging her sculpted legs off one side of the bed, this is Helen of Troy. Yawning and stretching, here is every beautiful woman across history.

Oh, there ain't no love, no Montagues or Capulets Just banging tunes and DJ sets And dirty dancefloors and dreams of naughtiness I Bet that You Look Good on the Dancefloor

By my head, here come the Capulets." Mercutio- "By my heel, I care not.

CAPULET: ...Well, we were born to die.

This is our siblings of more famous BookWorld Personalities self-help group expalined Loser (Gatsby). That's Sharon Eyre, the younger and wholly disreputable sister of Jane; Roger Yossarian, the draft dodger and coward; Rupert Bond, still a virgin and can't keep a secret; Tracy Capulet, who has slept her way round Verona twice; and Nancy Potter, who is a Muggle.

Seated across is a silent affair looking into my eyes; blurring the loud scenery. An incapable dream, an unimagined union-I whisper. Then you close your eyes and your soul yells my name. I cradle your peace back-with a sigh and kiss your thought away. Because we are an incomplete pair of Romeo and Juliet left alive by the Montagues and the Capulets; killed by the distance of the sun and the moon.

West Virginia had the Hatfield and the McCoys. Shakespeare had the Capulets and the Montagues. Salvation had the Martins and the Sweets.

When I was twelve, my sixth-grade English class went on a field trip to see Franco Zeffirelli’s film adaptation of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. From that moment forward I dreamed that someday I’d meet my own Juliet. I’d marry her and I would love her with the same passion and intensity as Romeo. The fact that their marriage lasted fewer than three days before they both were dead didn’t seem to affect my fantasy. Even if they had lived, I don’t think their relationship could have survived. Let’s face it, being that emotionally aflame, sexually charged, and transcendentally eloquent every single second can really start to grate on a person’s nerves. However, if I could find someone to love just a fraction of the way that Montague loved his Capulet, then marrying her would be worth it.

Don't you dare. Don't you run away from me." He holds me tight, his fingers pressing into my back. "I'm listening. You're not Ariel. Then what should I call you? I don't care. I'll love you no matter what name you want me to use.

Montagues and Capulets, French and English, Whig and Tory, Airbus and Boeing, Pepsi and Coke, Serb and Muslim, Christian and Saracen – we are irredeemably tribal creatures. The neighbouring or rival group, however defined, is automatically an enemy. Argentinians and Chileans hate each other because there is nobody else nearby to hate.

At this same ancient feast of Capulet's Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov'st, With all the admired beauties of Verona. Go thither, and with unattainted eye, Compare her face with some that I shall show, And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.

This blood feud is a bit too Shakespearean, if ye want the truth. I’m no Montague, and ye’re no Capulet.

Lady Capulet à Juliette: Un chagrin raisonnable prouve l'affection; mais un chagrin excessif prouve toujours un manque de sagesse.

CAPULET: Ready to go, but never to return. O son! the night before thy wedding-day Hath Death lain with thy wife. There she lies, Flower as she was, deflowered by him. Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir; My daughter he hath wedded: I will die, And leave him all; life, living, all is Death’s.

Escalus, Prince of Verona. Paris, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince. Montague,}Heads of two Houses at variance with each other. Capulet, } An Old Man, Uncle to Capulet. Romeo, Son to Montague. Mercutio, Kinsman to the Prince, and Friend to Romeo. Benvolio, Nephew to Montague, and Friend to Romeo. Tybalt, Nephew to Lady Capulet.

Evermore weeping for your cousin’s death? What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live; Therefore, have done: some grief shows much of love; But much of grief shows still some want of wit. JULIET: Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. LADY CAPULET: So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend Which you weep for. JULIET: Feeling so the loss, Cannot choose but ever weep the friend. LADY CAPULET: Well, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death, As that the villain lives which slaughter’d him.

It's just human, or inhuman, nature: People will find a way to make a big deal out of their differences-the smaller, the better. It reminded me of the Mantagues and the Capulets (if I wanted to think highbrow), or the Hatfields and the McCoys (if I wanted to go lowbrow)...or the Jets and the Sharks (if I happened to feel musical).

The day is hot, the Capulets abroad. And if we meet we shall not escape a brawl. For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.

Ô Roméo ! Roméo ! pourquoi es-tu Roméo ? Renie ton père et abdique ton nom ; ou, si tu ne le veux pas, jure de m'aimer, et je ne serai plus une Capulet.

Capulet:What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!

I like literature," I said. "We started watching the film version of Romeo and Juliet today." I didn't tell them this, but the love story fascinated me. The way the lovers fell so deeply and irrevocably in love after their first meeting sparked a burning curiosity in me about what human love might feel like. "How are you finding that?" Ivy asked. "It's very powerful, but the teacher got really mad when one of the boys said something about Lady Capulet." "What did he say?" "He called her a MILF, which must be offensive because Miss Castle called him a thug and sent him out of the room. Gabe, what is a MILF?" Ivy smothered her smile behind a napkin while Gabriel did something I'd never seen before. He blushed and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Some acronym for a teenage obscnity, I imagine," he mumbled. "Yes, but do you know what it means?" He paused, trying to find the right words. "It's a term used by adolescent males to describe a woman who is both attractive and a mother." He cleared his throat and got up quickly to refill the water jug. "I'm sure it must stand for something," I pressed. "It does," Gabriel said. "Ivy, can you remeber what it is?" "I believe it stands for 'mother I'd like to...befriend'," said my sister. "Is that all?" I exclaimed. "What a fuss over nothing. I really think Miss Castle needs to chill.

Do you ever think what might've happened if they weren't so damn impatient? If Romeo had stopped for a second and gotten a doctor, or waited for Juliet to wake up? Not jumped to conclusions and gone and poisoned himself thinking she was dead when she was just sleeping? I've seen that movie so many times, and every damn time, it's like screaming at the girl in the horror movie. Don't go in the basement. The killer's down there. With Romeo and Juliet, I yell, 'Don't jump to conclusions.' But do those fools ever listen to me? I always imagine what might've happened if they'd waited. Juliet would've woken up. They'd already be married. They might've moved away, far away from the Montagues and the Capulets, gotten themselves a cute castle of their own. Decorated it up nice. Maybe it would've been like The Winter's Tale. By thinking Hermione was dead, Leontes had time to stop acting like a fool and then later he was so happy to find out she was alive. Maybe the Montagues and the Capulets would find out later that their beloved kids weren't dead, and wasn't it stupid to feud, and everyone would be happy. Maybe it would've turned the whole tragedy into a comedy.

So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend which you weep for

Humanist dramas unfold when people have uncomfortable desires. For example, it is extremely uncomfortable when Romeo of the house of Montague falls in love with Juliet of the house of Capulet, because the Montagues and Capulets are bitter enemies. The technological solution to such dramas is to ensure we never have uncomfortable desires. How much pain and sorrow would have been avoided if, instead of drinking poison, Romeo and Juliet could just take a pill or wear a helmet that would have redirected their star-crossed love towards other people.

en vérité il est très agréable de se réunir, de s’asseoir et de bavarder des intérêts publics. Parfois même je suis prêt à chanter de joie, quand je rentre dans la société et vois des hommes solides, sérieux, très bien élevés, qui se sont réunis, parlent de quelque chose sans rien perdre de leur dignité. De quoi parlent-ils ? ça c’est une autre question. J’oublie même, parfois, de pénétrer le sens de la conversation, me contentant du tableau seul. Mais jusqu’ici, je n’ai jamais pu pénétrer le sens de ce dont s’entretiennent chez nous les gens du monde qui n’appartiennent pas à un certain groupe. Dieu sait ce que c’est. Sans doute quelque chose de charmant, puisque ce sont des gens charmants. Mais tout cela paraît incompréhensible. On dirait toujours que la conversation vient de commencer ; comme si l’on accordait les instruments. On reste assis pendant deux heures et, tout ce temps, on ne fait que commencer la conversation. Parfois tous ont l’air de parler de choses sérieuses, de choses qui provoquent la réflexion. Mais ensuite, quand vous vous demandez de quoi ils ont parlé, vous êtes incapable de le dire : de gants, d’agriculture, ou de la constance de l’amour féminin ? De sorte que, parfois, je l’avoue, l’ennui me gagne. On a l’impression de rentrer par une nuit sombre à la maison en regardant tristement de côté et d’entendre soudain de la musique. C’est un bal, un vrai bal. Dans les fenêtres brillamment éclairées passent des ombres ; on entend des murmures de voix, des glissements de pas ; sur le perron se tiennent des agents. Vous passez devant, distrait, ému ; le désir de quelque chose s’est éveillé en vous. Il vous semble avoir entendu le battement de la vie, et, cependant, vous n’emportez avec vous que son pâle motif, l’idée, l’ombre, presque rien. Et l’on passe comme si l’on n’avait pas confiance. On entend autre chose. On entend, à travers les motifs incolores de notre vie courante, un autre motif, pénétrant et triste, comme dans le bal des Capulet de Berlioz. L’angoisse et le doute rongent votre coeur, comme cette angoisse qui est au fond du motif lent de la triste chanson russe : Écoutez... d’autres sons résonnent. Tristesse et orgie désespérées... Est-ce un brigand qui a entonné, là-bas, la chanson ? Ou une jeune fille qui pleure à l’heure triste des adieux ? Non ; ce sont les faucheurs qui rentrent de leur travail... Autour sont les forêts et les steppes de Saratov.

ROMÉO. — Elle parle : oh, parle encore, ange brillant ! car là où tu es, au-dessus de ma tête, tu me parais aussi splendide au sein de cette nuit que l’est un messager ailé du ciel aux-regards étonnés des mortels ; lorsque rejetant leurs têtes en arrière, on ne voit plus que le blanc de leurs yeux, tant leurs prunelles sont dirigées-en haut pour le contempler, pendant qu’il chevauche sur les nuages à la marche indolente et navigue sur le sein de l’air. JULIETTE. — Ô Roméo, Roméo ! pourquoi es-tu Roméo ? Renie ton père, ou rejette ton nom ; ou si tu ne veux pas, lie-toi seulement par serment à mon amour, et je ne serai pas plus longtemps une Capulet. ROMÉO, à part. — En entendrai-je davantage, ou répondrai-je à ce qu’elle rient de dire JULIETTE. — C’est ton nom seul qui est mon ennemi. Après tout tu es toi-même, et non un Montaigu. Qu’est-ce qu’un Montaigu ? Ce n’est ni une main, ni un pied, ni un bras, ni un, visage, ni toute autre partie du corps appartenant à un homme. Oh ! porte un autre nom ! Qu’y a-t-il dans un nom ? La fleur que nous nommons la rose, sentirait tout aussi bon sous un autre nom ; ainsi Roméo, quand bien même il ne serait pas appelé Roméo, n’en garderait pas moins la précieuse perfection : qu’il possède. Renonce à ton nom Roméo, et en place de ce nom qui ne fait pas partie de toi, prends-moi toute entière. ROMÉO. — Je te prends au mot : appelle-moi seulement : ton amour, et je serai rebaptisé, et désormais je ne voudrai plus être Roméo. JULIETTE. — Qui es-tu, toi qui, protégé par la nuit, viens ainsi surprendre les secrets de mon âme ? ROMÉO. — Je ne sais de quel nom me servir pour te dire qui je suis : mon nom, chère sainte, m’est odieux à moi-même, parce qu’il t’est ennemi ; s’il était écrit, je déchirerais le mot qu’il forme. JULIETTE. — Mes oreilles n’ont pas encore bu cent paroles de cette voix, et cependant j’en reconnais le son n’es-tu pas Roméo, et un Montaigu ? ROMÉO. — Ni l’un, ni l’autre, belle vierge, si l’un ou l’autre te déplaît. JULIETTE. — Comment es-tu venu ici, dis-le-moi, et pourquoi ? Les murs du jardin sont élevés et difficiles à escalader, et considérant qui tu es, cette place est mortelle pour toi, si quelqu’un de mes parents t’y trouve. ROMÉO. — J’ai franchi ces murailles avec les ailes légères de l’amour, car des limites de pierre ne peuvent arrêter l’essor de l’amour ; et quelle chose l’amour peut-il oser qu’il ne puisse aussi exécuter ? tes parents ne me, sont donc pas un obstacle. JULIETTE. — S’ils te voient, ils t’assassineront. ROMÉO. — Hélas ! il y a plus de périls, dans tes yeux que dans vingt de leurs épées : veuille seulement abaisser un doux regard sûr moi, et je suis cuirassé contre leur inimitié. JULIETTE. — Je ne voudrais pas, pour le monde entier, qu’ils te vissent ici. ROMÉO. — J’ai le manteau de la nuit pour me dérober à leur vue et d’ailleurs, à moins que tu ne m’aimes, ils peuvent me trouver, s’ils veulent : mieux vaudrait que leur haine mît fin à ma vie, que si ma mort était retardée, sans que j’eusse ton amour ; JULIETTE. — Quel est celui qui t’a enseigné la direction de cette place ? ROMÉO. — C’est l’Amour, qui m’a excité à la découvrir ; il m’a prêté ses conseils, et je lui ai prêté mes yeux. Je ne suis pas pilote ; cependant fusses-tu aussi éloignée que le vaste rivage baigné par la plus lointaine nier, je m’aventurerais pour une marchandise telle que toi.

Let’s test the Shakespearean model in the real world. Imagine a production called Gates and Schmidt, based on Romeo and Juliet. Montague is Microsoft. Capulet is Google. Two great families, run by alpha nerds, sure to clash on account of their sameness.

Allison Prouty, who raises her hand for everything, helped give out the scripts while Donatello told us what parts we each had. When she got to me, she said, “Rafe, I think you’d make a fine Paris,” and everyone in the room started laughing, right at me. “Paris?” I asked. “Why do I have to read a girl’s part?” “Paris is a boy,” Donatello told me. “He’s one of Lord Capulet’s best men.” “Yeah, well, he probably still wears tights,” I said, but Donatello ignored me. “Listen to the language as we read through,” she told everyone. “Notice how every line has ten syllables. Notice the subtle rhyming. That’s not easy to do. Nobody wrote like Shakespeare. Nobody!” And I thought—hmmmm. Idea in progress, please stand by. “Let’s begin,” Donatello said. “‘Act One, Scene One.’ ” It turned out that this Paris guy (he really was a guy) doesn’t come in until page 12. That was good. It gave me time to work on my idea. Donatello probably thought I was taking notes like Jeanne Galletta and the other brainiacs, but I was actually hot on the trail of those 30,000 points. Ten syllables per line? Check! Rhyming? Check! By the time we got to my part, there were only a couple

Just as war cost the Montagues and Capulets their children, it cost Microsoft and Google their dominance: Apple came along and overtook them all. In January 2013, Apple’s market capitalization was $500 billion, while Google and Microsoft combined were worth $467 billion. Just

Wednesday evening arrived, eight o'clock came, and eight members of the committee were punctual in their attendance. Mr Loggins, the solicitor, of Boswell-court, sent an excuse, and Mr Samuel Briggs, the ditto of Furnival's Inn, sent his brother, much to his (the brother's) satisfaction, and greatly to the discomfiture of Mr Percy Noakes. Between the Briggses and the Tauntons there existed a degree of implacable hatred, quite unprecedented. The animosity between the Montagues and Capulets was nothing to that which prevailed between these two illustrious houses. Mrs Briggs was a widow, with three daughters and two sons; Mr Samuel, the eldest, was an attorney, and Mr Alexander, the youngest, was under articles to his brother. They resided in Portland-street, Oxford-street, and moved in the same orbit as the Tauntons - hence their mutual dislike. If the Miss Briggs appeared in smart bonnets, the Miss Tauntons eclipsed them with smarter. If Mrs Taunton appeared in a cap of all the hues of the rainbow, Mrs Briggs forthwith mounted a toque, with all the patterns of a kaleidoscope. If Miss Sophia Taunton learnt a new song, two of the Miss Briggses came out with a new duet. The Tauntons had once gained a temporary triumph with the assistance of a harp, but the Briggses brought three guitars into the field, and effectually routed the enemy. There was no end to the rivalry between them.

Romeo, Romeo!' said she, 'wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name, for my sake; or if thou wilt not, be but my sworn love, and I no longer will be a Capulet.

Capulet! Montague! See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love!

Just as war cost the Montagues and Capulets their children, it cost Microsoft and Google their dominance: Apple came along and overtook them all. In January 2013, Apple’s market capitalization was $500 billion, while Google and Microsoft combined were worth $467 billion. Just three years before, Microsoft and Google were each more valuable than Apple. War is costly business.

We are not surprised at Romeo loving Juliet, though he is a Montague and she is a Capulet. But if we found in addition that Lady Capulet was by birth a Montague, that Lady Montague was a first cousin of old Capulet, that Mecutio was at once the nephew of a Capulet and the brother-in-law of a Montague, that count Paris was related on his father’s side to one house and on his mother’s side to the other, that Tybalt was Romeo’s uncle’s stepson and that the Friar who had married Romeo and Juliet was Juliet’s uncle and Romeo’s first cousin once removed, we would probably conclude that the feud between the two houses was being kept up for dramatic entertainment of the people of Verona.

West Virginia had the Hatfield and the McCoys. Shakespeare had the Capulets and the Montagues. Salvation had the Martins and the Sweets.

He’s tall, and big. His dark hair is thick and more unruly than you might expect from a CEO. He’s wearing an extremely well-cut suit but doesn’t seem entirely at ease in it, as though it constricts a barely-controlled wildness that’s a definite part of his vibe.

Lexi. Fucking hell. You taste so damn good.” His voice has become rasped with lust and … not indecision, but turmoil over a decision already made.

All I know is that he’s mine. I want to keep him. And I’ll do it all over again if he’ll let me.

After the waves calm, Rafe strokes my hair for a while. He kisses my face. Then he pulls gently out of me. He stands above me, all hulking and outrageous. Then, abruptly, he pauses, touching his fingers to my body. He looks appalled, almost furious, as he stares at his blood-stained fingers. “Lexi. My God. You’re a virgin?

takes me a while to return to myself. I can’t think. I can only feel. One thing I know: this is bad. Very, very bad. This girl. I’ve found my weakness. And I am utterly, hopelessly addicted.

If I’m addicted, Rafe seems almost crazed. Dirty and lusty and obsessed.

This is nothing less than addiction, I know that. Or obsession. Or some twisted, raging combination of the two. I’m powerless to slow it or calm it.

A fucking Greek tragedy with a Shakespearean twist. And for all my efforts, I can't at all renounce my name. I'll forever be the Capulet without a Romeo

Rafe pauses before he opens the door. “Don’t forget who you belong to.

He’s muttering something under his breath. Fucking hell. If you were anyone else’s … anyone else’s … keep your fucking cool, Max. Jesus H. Christ.

Thank you, Max. I feel warmer already.” After a pause, I ask him quietly: “Did you call him?” “No. Not yet.” I remember pleading with him not to call Rafe. He listened, and I’m grateful. I can trust him, which means something. “I’m not going to call him until you want me to. But you know as well as I do that he’ll be insane with worry right now. He might hurt himself. Not intentionally but he goes into a rage when … well, when someone he loves is threatened or lost. He reacts badly to things like that.

I love you more, baby. I’m sorry I scared you. I won’t do it again.

I don’t like being apart from you, either.” It’s scarily true. “Maybe it wasn’t just the lock,” he says. “Maybe it’s everything. I’m too over-protective, I know that. I can’t seem to help myself. I love you too much.

willingly take everything he gives me. As equals. As lovers. As two damaged souls, hinged together by our jagged edges.

On this side, the code for all my accounts. So you’ll never be locked in or locked out. And you’ll never need for anything you can’t have.

I’m done running, Rafe. I don’t want to ever be apart from you again.” “Lex, will you marry me. Now? Today?” “Guess what today is?” I ask him. “What?” “Today’s my birthday.” He smiles, that heart-breaking smile. “We met on my birthday and we’ll get married on yours. That’s what I’m going to do, baby girl. I’m going to marry you on your birthday and make all your dreams come true.” And that’s exactly what he does.

Yeah, it is. And so are you. And I am so in love with you I hope like hell it doesn’t end up destroying us both.

Yours.” I touch my sensitive nipples. “Yours.” I touch my fingers there, “And this. All soft and ready for you. Yours.

The Montagues and Capulets had nothing on us. Star crossed lovers, were we doomed from the start? I

You run through the now-open door to Capulet Castle and quickly find Juliet to deliver the good news to her. You are tired, aching, and out of breath. But on the plus side, you solved some cool puzzles and didn’t get eaten by crazed animals! Juliet is overjoyed to see you and can’t wait to hear your good news. She will marry her Romeo because of you. It is a happy ending, because as we know, nothing can go wrong when people get married!

I was barely ever bad-tempered with Marcel, and my tone made him press his lips together to keep from smiling. When I parked in front of Mr. Anderson’s house, he stretched over to take my face in his hands. He handled me very thoroughly, touching just the tips of his fingers softly against my temples, my cheekbones, my jawline. Like I was exceptionally breakable. Which was specifically the case-compared with him, at most limited. ‘You should be in a good mood, today of all days,’ he muttered. His unseasoned breath crossed my face. ‘Moreover, if I don't want to be in a good mood?’ I asked, my breathing irregular. His golden eyes smoldered. ‘Too bad.’ My head was already spinning by the time he leaned closer and pressed his icy lips against mine. As he intended, no doubt, I forgot all about my worries and concentrated on remembering how to inhale and exhale. His mouth lingered on mine, cold and smooth and gentle until I wrapped my arms around his neck and threw myself into the kiss with a little too much enthusiasm. I could feel his lips curve upward as he let go of my face and reached back to unlock my grip on him. Marcel had drawn many careful lines for our physical relationship, with the intent being to keep me alive. Though I respected the need for maintaining a safe distance between my skin and his razor-sharp, venom-coated teeth, I tended to forget about trivial things like that when he was kissing me. ‘Be good, please,’ he breathed against my cheek. He pressed his lips gently to mine one more time and then pulled away, folding my arms across my stomach. My pulse was thudding in my ears. I put one hand over my heart. It drummed hyperactivity under my palm. ‘Do you think I'll ever get better at this?’ I wondered, mostly to myself. ‘That my heart might someday stop trying to jump out of my chest whenever you touch me?’ ‘I hope not,’ he said, a bit smug. I rolled my eyes. ‘Let's go watch the Capulets and Montagues hack each other up, all right?’ ‘Your wish, my command.’ Marcel sprawled on the couch while I started the movie, fast-forwarding through the opening credits.

There is a long moment. I don’t even understand why he’s standing up for me in front of his father. In another handful of months, the truth will come out. I’m not his girlfriend. I’m not someone he cares about. I am only after his money. But for a second, the lie seems real. Blake’s eyes blaze. His hand holds mine. I can actually believe that he cares about me, that he’s willing to stand up to his father for me. It’s like Romeo and Juliet. The version of Romeo and Juliet where the Montagues have nothing and the Capulets can crush them all without thinking, that is. The version where Juliet dies alone in the tomb from a drug overdose and Romeo says, “Oh, shit, I knew I was forgetting something, but I was trying to figure out how to get out of paying ordinary income tax.

It’s not exactly Capulets and Montagues or anything, but I can’t say that I don’t feel kind of resentful and weird about the whole situation

At eighteen, the twins are old enough to choose their own clothes and their own boyfriends, and even if Frankie doesn’t approve of their choices, she tries to keep her objections to herself. Forbidden fruit is the sweetest of all; the travails of the Capulets and Montagues taught every parent that much.