Romeo: But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?It is the East, and Juliet is the sun.Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,Who is already sick and pale with griefThat thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.Be not her maid since she is envious.Her vestal livery is but sick and green,And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off.It is my lady. O, it is my love!O, that she knew she were!She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?Her eye discourses; I will answer it
I take thee at thy word.Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized.Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
Romeo: O, speak again, bright angel, for thou artAs glorious to this night, being o’er my head,As is a wingèd messenger of heavenUnto the white-upturnèd wond’ring eyesOf mortals that fall back to gaze on himWhen he bestrides the lazy puffing cloudsAnd sails upon the bosom of the air
By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself Because it is an enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the word.
Juliet: O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?Deny thy father and refuse thy name,Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.
Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.
Juliet: ’Tis but thy name that is my enemy.Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,Nor arm, nor face. O, be some other nameBelonging to a man.What’s in a name? That which we call a rose By any other word would smell as sweet.So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,Retain that dear perfection which he owesWithout that title. Romeo, doff thy name,And, for thy name, which is no part of thee,Take all myself.
Juliet: What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night,So stumblest on my counsel?
Juliet: My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words Of thy tongue’s uttering, yet I know the sound.Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?