Did my heart love ’til now? Forswear its sight. For I never saw true beauty ’til this night.
If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this. My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers, too?
Well, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.
Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.
Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.
I defy you, stars!
Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee doth much excuse the appertaining rage to such a greeting. Villain am I none. Therefore farewell. I see thou knowest me not.
I have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes, but thou love me, let them find me here. My life were better ended by their hate than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.
My Love, my Life. Death is upon thy breath and yet not thy beauty. Thou are not conquered yet, this beauty is in thy lips and thy cheeks and deaths pale flag has not been conquered there. Dear Juliet, why are thou so fair? Should I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous, keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour? Here, oh here will I stay with thee; and never from this place of dim night depart again: here, here I will remain. Eyes look at last, let me take one last embrace, and lips only to the doors to breath and seal with a righteous kiss.
Not mad, but bound more than a mad man is. Shut up in prison, kept without my food, whipped and tormented.
