Where the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home tonight?
Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead; stabbed with a white wench's black eye; run through the ear with a love song; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's butt-shaft; and is he a man to encounter Tybalt?
Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, Hath sent a letter to his father's house... Romeo will answer it.
Not to his father's. I spoke with his man.
Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan's the fairer face.
...Here comes the lady. O, so light a foot Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint. A lover may bestride the gossamers That idles in the wanton summer air, And yet not fall; so light is vanity
My fan, Peter.
Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the young Romeo?
I will tell her, sir, that you do protest, which, as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer.
Go to! I say you shall.
Bid her devise Some means to come to shrift this afternoon; And there she shall at Friar Lawrence' cell Be shrived and married. Here is for thy pains.
Amen, amen! But come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy That one short minute gives me in her sight. Do thou but close our hands with holy words, Then love-devouring death do what he dare— It is enough I may but call her mine.
So smile the heavens upon this holy act That afterhours !
Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his substance, not of ornament. They are but beggars that can count their worth; But my true love is grown to such excess I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.
Come, come with me, and we will make short work, For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone Till Holy Church incorporate two in one.
Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy Be heaped like mine, and that thy skill be more To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath This neighbor air, and let rich music's tongue Unfold the imagined happiness that both Receive in either by this dear encounter.
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