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But soft what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon.
It is my lady, O it is my love: O that she knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing; what of that? The brightness of her cheek would shame the stars, As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would through the sky stream so bright That birds would sing and think it not night She how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!
O speak again, bright angel, for thou art As glorious to this night being over my head.
O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Dent thy father and refuse thy name; Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I’ll no longer be a Capulet. Tis but thy name that is my enemy; Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What’s a Montague? It is nor hand nor foot, Nor arm nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. O be some other name!
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself.
I take thee at thy word: Call me but love, I’ll be new baptised; Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
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