O, speak again, bright angel! For thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a wingèd messenger of heaven Unto the white, upturnèd, wondering eyes Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the air.
I'll tell thee as we pass, but this I pray. That thou consent to marry us.
Holy Saint Francis, what a change is here! Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear, So soon forsaken?
Your love says, like an honorable gentleman, who is courteous, kind, handsome, and, I believe, virtuous— where is your mother?
Believe me, I’m sorry you’re in pain. Sweet, sweet, sweet Nurse, tell me, what did my love Romeo say?