Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy/ Be heaped like mine, and that thy skill be more/ To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath/ This neighbor air, and let rich music's tongue/ Unfold the imagined happiness that both/ Receive in either by this dear encounter
Good even to my ghostly confessor.
Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.
As much to him, else is his thanks too much.
Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,/ Brags of his substance, not of ornament./ They are but beggars that can count their worth,/ But my true love is grown to such excess/ I cannot sum up sum of half my worth.
Come, come with me, and we will make short work./ For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone/ Till holy church incorporate two in one.