Collection 4: "The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet" by William Shakespeare, Act II

That were some spite; my invocation
Is fair and honest: in his mistress' name,
I conjure only but to raise up him.

Come, he hath hid himself among these trees
To be consorted with the humorous night.

Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.

Her eye discourses; I will answer it.

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.

Romeo, doff thy name;
And for that name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.

Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye
Than twenty of their swords! Look thou but sweet,
And I am proof against their enmity.

My life were better ended by their hate
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.

Fain would I dwell on form—fain, fain deny
What I have spoke; but farewell compliment!

Or if thou thinkst I am too quickly won,
I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world.

Therefore pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered.

As sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart as that within my breast!

The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,
Chequ'ring the Eastern clouds with streaks of light;
And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels
From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels.

Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye
The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry,
I must upfill this osier cage of ours
With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.

I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo,
My intercession likewise steads my foe.

Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift.
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.

What a deal of brine
Hath washed thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!

Thou chid'st me oft for loving Rosaline.

For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.

O, she knew well
Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell.

In one respect I'll thy assistant be;
For this alliance may so happy prove
To turn your households' rancor to pure love.

Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline,
Torments him so that he will sure run mad.

Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardona-mi's, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench?

Laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen wench (marry, she had a better love to berhyme her), Dido a dowdy, Cleopatra a gypsy, Helen and Hero hildings and harlots, Thisbe a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose.

For this drivelling love is like a great natural that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole.

For this drivelling love is like a great natural that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole.

'Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon.

Scurvy knave!

Scurvy knave!

Bid her devise
Some means to come to shrift this afternoon;
And there she shall at Friar Laurence' cell
Be shrived and married.

And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey wall.

Lord, Lord! when 'twas a little prating thing—O, there is a nobleman in town, one Paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lief see a toad, a very toad, as see him.

R is for the—No; I know it begins with some other letter; and she hath the prettiest sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it.

Love's heralds should be thoughts,
Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams
Driving back shadows over lowering hills.

Had she affections and warm youthful blood,
She would be as swift in motion as a ball;
My words would bandy her to my sweet love,
And his to me.

But old folks, many feign as they were dead—
Unwieldy, slow, heavy, and pale as lead.

Is this the poultice for my aching bones?

I am the drudge, and toil in your delight;
But you shall bear the burden soon at night.

But come what sorrow can,
It cannot countervail the exchange of joy
That one short minute gives me in her sight.

A lover may bestride the gossamer
That idles in the wanton summer air,
And yet not fall; so light is vanity.