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As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek! J: Ay me!
O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art, As glorious to this night, being o’er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven, Unto the white-upturned wond’ring eyes Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him, When he bestrides the lazy puffing clouds, And sails upon the bosom of the air.
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. R: Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? J: ’Tis but thy name that is my enemy; Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What’s Montague? It is nor hand nor foot, Nor arm nor face, nor any other part, Belonging to a man......
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