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So smile the heavens upon this holy act, That after hours with sorrow chide us not!
Amen, amen! but come what sorrow can,Do thou but close our hands with holy words,Then love-devouring death do what he dare; It is enough I may but call her mine.
These violent delights have violent endsAnd in their triumph die, like fire and powder,Which as they kiss consume:
the sweetest honeyIs loathsome in his own deliciousnessAnd in the taste confounds the appetite:Therefore love moderately; long love doth so;Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.
Here comes the lady: O, so light a footWill ne'er wear out the everlasting flint:A lover may bestride the gossamerThat idles in the wanton summer air,And yet not fall; so light is vanity.
Good even to my ghostly confessor.
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 excessI cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.
Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joyBe heap'd like mine and that thy skill be moreTo blazon it, then sweeten with thy breathThis neighbour air, and let rich music's tongueUnfold the imagined happiness that bothReceive in either by this dear encounter.
Come, come with me, and we will make short work;For, by your leaves, you shall not stay aloneTill holy church incorporate two in one.
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