Romeo and Juliet Page #3

Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh.

Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied.

Cry but, "Ah, me."

Pronounce but "love" and "dove."

He heareth not. He stirreth not.

He moveth not.

The ape is dead,

and I must conjure him.

I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes,

by her high forehead and her scarlet lip,

by her fine foot,

straight leg and quivering thigh,

and the demesnes that there adjacent lie,

that in thy likeness thou appear to us.

Come, he hath hid himself

among these trees.

Blind is his love and best befits the dark.

Romeo, good night. I'll to my truckle-bed.

This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.

He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

But, soft. What light

through yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

It is my lady. Oh, it is my love.

Oh, that she knew she were.

See how she leans her cheek

upon her hand.

Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand

that I might touch that cheek.

Ay me!

Oh, speak again, bright angel.

For thou art as glorious to this night,

being o'er my head,

as is a winged messenger of heaven.

O Romeo. Romeo.

Wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy father and refuse thy name.

Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,

and I'll no longer be a Capulet.

Shall I hear more, or

shall I speak at this?

'Tis but thy name that is my enemy.

What's in a name?

That which we call a rose

by any other name would smell as sweet.

So Romeo would,

were he were not Romeo called,

retain that dear perfection

which he owes without that title.

Romeo, doff thy name,

and for that name which is no part of thee,

take all myself.

I take thee at thy word.

Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized.

What man art thou,

that thus be screened in night,

so stumblest on my counsel?

By a name

I know not how to tell thee who I am.

My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,

because it is an enemy to thee.

My ears have not yet drunk a hundred

words of that tongue's utterance,

yet I know the sound.

Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.

How camest thou hither, tell me,

and wherefore?

The orchard walls are high

and hard to climb

and the place death, considering who thou

art, if any of my kinsmen find thee here.

With love's light wings

did I o'er-perch these walls.

For stony limits cannot hold love out,

and what love can do,

that dares love attempt.

Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.

If they do see thee, they will murder thee.

Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye

than twenty of their swords.

Look thou but sweet,

and I am proof against their enmity.

I would not for the world

they saw thee here.

I have night's cloak to hide me

from their eyes,

and but thou love me,

let them find me here.

By whose direction

found'st thou out this place?

By Love's,

that first did prompt me to inquire.

He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.

I am no pilot.

Yet, wert thou as far as that vast shore

washed by the farthest sea,

I should adventure for such merchandise.

Thou know'st the mask of night

is on my face.

Else would a maiden blush

bepaint my cheek

for that which thou hast heard me

speak tonight.

Fain would I dwell on form,

fain, fain deny what I have spoke:

But farewell compliment.

Dost thou love me?

I know thou wilt say ay,

and I will take thy word.

Yet, if thou swear'st,

thou mayst prove false.

At lovers' perjuries they say Jove laughs.

O gentle Romeo.

If thou dost love,

pronounce it faithfully.

Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won,

I'll frown and be perverse,

and say thee nay, so thou wilt woo.

Else not for the world.

In truth, fair Montague,

I am too fond.

Therefore pardon me,

and not impute this yielding to light love,

which the dark night hath so discovered.

Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear

that tips with silver

all these fruit tree tops.

Oh, swear not by the moon,

the inconstant moon,

that monthly changes in her circled orb,

lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

- What shall I swear by?

- Do not swear at all.

Or, if thou wilt,

swear by thy gracious self,

which is the god of my idolatry,

and I'll believe thee.

If my heart's dear love...

Well, do not swear.

Although I joy in thee,

I have no joy of this contract tonight.

It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden.

Too like the lightning, which doth cease

to be ere one can say it lightens.

- Sweet, good night.

- Wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

What satisfaction

cans't thou have tonight?

The exchange of thy love's faithful vow

for mine.

I gave thee mine

before thou dids't request it.

And yet I would it were to give again.

Wouldst thou withdraw it?

For what purpose, love?

But to be frank, and give it thee again.

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

my love as deep.

The more I give to thee, the more I have,

for both are infinite.

I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu.

Juliet.

Anon, good nurse.

Sweet Montague, be true.

Stay but a little, I will come again.

O blessed, blessed night.

I am afeard, being in night,

all this is but a dream,

too flattering-sweet to be substantial.

Three words, dear Romeo,

and good night, indeed.

If that thy bent of love be honorable,

thy purpose marriage,

send me word tomorrow by one

that I'll procure to come to thee,

where and what time

thou wilt perform the rite.

And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay

and follow thee, my lord,

throughout the world.

- Madam.

- I come anon.

But if thou mean'st not well,

I do beseech thee...

- Madam.

- By and by, I come.

To cease thy suit

and leave me to my grief.

Tomorrow will I send.

So thrive my soul.

A thousand times good night.

A thousand times the worse,

to want thy light.

Romeo. Romeo.

- It is my soul that calls upon my name.

- Romeo.

How silver-sweet

sound lovers' tongues by night,

like softest music to attending ears.

My dear.

I have forgot why I did call thee back.

Let me stand here till thou remember it.

I shall forget,

to have thee still stand there,

remembering how I love thy company.

And I'll still stay, to

have thee still forget,

forgetting any other home but this.

'Tis almost morning.

I would have thee gone,

and yet no further than a wanton's bird,

who lets it hop a little from her hand and

with a silk thread plucks it back again,

- so loving jealous of his liberty.

- I would I were thy bird.

Sweet, so would I.

Yet, I should kill thee

with much cherishing.

Good night. Good night.

Parting is such sweet sorrow

that I shall say good night

till it be morrow.

Sleep dwell upon thine eyes,

peace in thy breast.

Would I were sleep and peace,

so sweet to rest.

Where the devil should this Romeo be?

Came he not home last night?

Not to his father's. I spoke with his men.

Why, that same pale,

hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline,

torments him so he will sure run mad.

Tybalt, the kinsman of old Capulet,

has sent a letter to his father's house.

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