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He jets a scars that never felt a wound. But soft! what light through yonder window breaks ? It is the east , and Juliet is the sun.
Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes of mortals that fall back and gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds and sails upon the bosom of the air
O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
'Tis but thy name this is my enemy; Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
I take thee at thy word: Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized; henceforth I will never be Romeo
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