More light and light, more dark and dark our woes!
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Oh, think'st thou we shall ever meet again
I will omit no opportunity that may convey my greetings, love, to thee.
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Then, window, let day in and let life out
Your lady mother is coming to your chamber. The day is broke. Be wary, look about
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So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend Which you weep for.
Feeling so the loss, cannot choose but ever weep the friend.
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He shall not make me there a joyful bride... I pray to you, tell my lord and father madam, I will not marry yet, and when I do, I swear it shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate, rather than Paris
Marry, my child, early nest Thursday morn, the gallant, young, and noble gentleman, The County Prince..
Here comes your father. Tell him so yourself and see how he will take it at your hands
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Doth she not give us thanks? Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blessed, unworthy as she is, that we have wrought so worthy a gentleman to be her bride?
Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, but thankful even for hate that is meant love
Than me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, but fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next to go with Paris to Saint Peter's Church, or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. Out, you green sickness, carrion! Out, you baggage! You tallow face!