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He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
Oh, that i were a glove upon that hand That i might touch that cheek!
Call me but love. Henceforth i never will be Romeo.
O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?
Th' exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say “ay,”
So thrive my soul—
If that thy bent of love be honorable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow
Hence will I to my ghostly friar’s close cell, His help to crave and my dear hap to tell.
Parting is such sweet sorrow That I shall say good night till it be morrow.
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