(Print) Use this randomly generated list as your call list when playing the game. There is no need to say the BINGO column name. Place some kind of mark (like an X, a checkmark, a dot, tally mark, etc) on each cell as you announce it, to keep track. You can also cut out each item, place them in a bag and pull words from the bag.
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If ever you disturb our streets again,
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
Out of her favour, where I am in love.
A plague o' both your houses!
O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!
Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?
Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,
Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets,
My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words
Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound:
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I fear, too early: for my mind misgives
Some consequence yet hanging in the stars
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
Then love-devouring death do what he dare,
It is enough I may but call her mine.
Ha, banishment! be merciful, say 'death;'
For exile hath more terror in his look,
Much more than death: do not say 'banishment.'
Is Rosaline, who you did love so dear,
so soon forgotten?
Young men’s love then lies,
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls;
For stony limits cannot hold love out,
Many a morning hath he there been seen,
With tears augmenting the fresh morning dew.
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;
I would not for the wealth of all the town
Here in my house do him disparagement:
Therefore be patient, take no note of him:
From love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd.
She will not stay the siege of loving terms,
I do protest, I never injured thee,
But love thee better than thou canst devise,
Till thou shalt know the reason of my love:
O, I am fortune's fool!
I will withdraw: but this intrusion shall
Now seeming sweet convert to bitter gall.
Farewell: thou canst not teach me to forget.
What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
Fetch me my rapier, boy. What dares the slave
Come hither, cover'd with an antic face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
