"He jests at scars that never felt a wound.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,Who is already sick and pale with grief,That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.Be not her maid since she is envious."
"Ay me!
Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
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.
‘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 partBelonging to a man. O, be some other name!What’s in a name? That which we call a roseBy any other word would smell as sweet.So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,Retain that dear perfection which he owesWithout that title. Romeo, doff thy name,And for that name, which is no part of theeTake all myself.
Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
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