Part, fools! Put up your swords. You know not what you do.
Turn thee, Benvolio. Look upon thy death.
Younger than she are happy mothers made.
Let two more summers wither in their prideEre we may think her ripe to be a bride.
Go thither, and with unattainted eye Compare her face with some that I shall show, And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.
One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.
The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.
I’ll look to like if looking liking move. But no more deep will I endart mine eye
A man, young lady! Lady, such a man As all the world. Why, he’s a man of wax.
Then he dreams of another benefice. Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier’s neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, Of healths five fathom deep, and then anon Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.