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Uncle this is a montague our foe a villain that is hither come in spite to scorn at our solemnity this night.
If I profane with my unworthiest hand. The holy shrine the gentle fine is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough tough with a tender kiss.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this for saints have hands that pilgrams hands do touch and palm is holy palmers' kiss
Madam, your mother craves a word with you.
Is she a capulet? O dear account! my life is my foe's debt.
My only love, sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me. That I must love a loathed enemy.
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