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The gray-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light,And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reels,From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels
Within the infant rind of this small flowerPoison hath residence and medicine power
Benedicite.What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?Young son, it argues a distempered headSo soon to bid thy morrow to thy bed.
Good morrow, father
Holy Saint Francis, what a change is here!Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dearSo soon forsaken
Then plainly know my heart's dear love is setOn the fair daughter of rich CapuletAs mine on hers, so hers is set on mine.
I pray thee, chide not.Her I love nowDoth grace for grace and love for love allow.The other did not so.
Not in a grave,To lay one in, another out to have
Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast.
Oh, let us hence. I stand on sudden haste.
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