The date is out of such prolixity. We’ll have no Cupid hoodwinked with a scarf, Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath, Scaring the ladies like a After the prompter, for our entrance; But let them measure us by what they will, We’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.
Give me a torch. I am not for this ambling; Being but heavy, I will bear the light.
Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.
You have dancing shoes with nimble soles; I have a soul of lead so stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
You are a lover. Borrow Cupid’s wings And soar with them above a common bound.
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