O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
This, by his voice, should be a Montague. —
Fetch me my rapier, boy: — what, dares the slave
Come hither, cover'd with an antic face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
Now, by the stock and honour of my kin,
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.
Why, how now, kinsman! wherefore storm you so?
Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe;
A villain, that is hither come in spite,
To scorn at our solemnity this night.
Young Romeo, is it?
'Tis he, that villain, Romeo.
Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone,
He bears him like a portly gentleman;
And, to say truth, Verona brags of him
To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth:
I would not for the wealth of all the town
Here in my house do him disparagement:
Therefore be patient, take no note of him, —
It is my will; the which if thou respect,
Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,
An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.
It fits, when such a villain is a guest:
I'll not endure him.
He shall be endur'd:
What, goodman boy! — I say he shall; — go to;
Am I the master here, or you? go to.
You'll not endure him! — God shall mend my soul,
You'll make a mutiny among my guests!
You will set cock-a-hoop! you'll be the man!
Why, uncle, 'tis a shame.
Go to, go to!
You are a saucy boy. Is't so, indeed? —
This trick may chance to scathe you, — I know what:
You must contrary me! marry, 'tis time. —
Well said, my hearts! — You are a princox; go:
Be quiet, or — More light, more light! — For shame!
I'll make you quiet. What! — cheerly, my hearts.
Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting
Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.
I will withdraw: but this intrusion shall,
Now seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall.
[To Juliet.] If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this, —
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
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