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More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear,
When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.

I never su'd to friend, nor enemy;

My tongue could never learn sweet soothing word;
But now thy beauty is propos'd my fee,

My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak.
Say, that

you love me not; but say not so

In bitterness: The common executioner,

Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard,

Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck,

But first begs pardon.

Thou know'st, the mask of night is on my face;
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek,
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.

Hence, bashful cunning!
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!
I am your wife, if you will marry me;
If not, I'll die your maid: to be your fellow
You may deny me; but I'll be your servant,
Whether you will or no.

O, gentle Romeo,

If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:
Or if thou think'st 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.

If that thy bent of love be honourable,

Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite;
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay,

And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.

Dost thou love me? I know, thou wilt say-Ay;
And I will take thy word: yet, if thou swear'st,
Thou may'st prove false ; at lover's perjuries,
They say, Jove laughs.

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;

And therefore thou may'st think my haviour light:
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.

By my modesty,

(The jewel in my dower,) I would not wish Any companion in the world but you.

Sweet, good night!

This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.

When I would pray and think, I think and pray
To several subjects: heaven hath my empty words;
Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue,
Anchors on Isabel.

Poor worm! thou art infected!

This visitation shews it.

I have done penance for contemning love;
Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me
With bitter fasts, with penitential groans,
With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs.

Thou Julia, thou hast metamorphos'd me;
Made me neglect my studies, lose my time,
War with good counsel, set the world at nought;
Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought.

If thou hast not sat as I do now,

Wearying thy hearer in thy mistress' praise,
Thou hast not lov'd.

If thou hast not broke from company,
Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,
Thou hast not lov'd.

It were all one,
That I should love a bright particular star;
And think to wed it, he is so above me :
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.

I know I love in vain, strive against hope;
Yet, in this captious and intenible sieve,
I still pour in the waters of my love,
And lack not to lose still thus, Indian-like,
Religious in mine error, I adore

The sun, that looks upon his worshipper,
But knows of him no more.

The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind, that would be mated by the lion,
Must die for love.

Come, gentle night; come, loving, black- brow'd night; Give me my Romeo: and, when he shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine,
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.

See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!

O, she, that hath a heart of that fine frame,
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will she love, when the rich golden shaft
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else

That live in her! when liver, brain, and heart, These sovereign thrones, are all supply'd, and fill'd, (Her sweet perfections) with one self king!

She never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,

Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,

She sat, (like patience on a monument)

Smiling at grief.

Since that my beauty cannot please his eye,
I'll weep what's left away, and weeping die.

Ever till now,

When men were fond, I smil'd, and wonder'd how.

That every time I saw, (but thou couldst not,)
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm'd: a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal, throned by the west;

And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts.
Cupid is a knavish lad,

Thus to make poor females mad.

Methinks, I feel this youth's perfections,
With an invisible and subtle stealth,

To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.

There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him
In parcels as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him: but, for my part,
I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet
I have more cause to hate him than to love him :
For what had he to do to chide at me?

'Twas pretty, though a plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table; heart, too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour :
But now he's gone, and idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relicks.

my

Think not I love him, though I ask for him;
'Tis but a peevish boy:-yet he talks well;
But what care I for words? yet words do well,
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.

Fie, fie! how wayward is this foolish love,
That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse,
And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod.

Myself have often heard him say, and swear,-
That this his love was an eternal plant;
Whereof the root was fix'd in virtue's ground,
The leaves and fruit.maintain'd with beauty's sun.

He says, he loves my daughter;

I think so too; for never gaz'd the moon
Upon the water, as he'll stand, and read,
As 'twere, my daughter's eyes: and, to be plain,
I think, there is not half a kiss to choose,
Who loves another best.

His soul is so enfetter'd to her love,

That she may make, unmake, do what she list,
Even as her appetite shall play the god
With his weak function.

If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,
Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch?
If zealous love should go in search of virtue,
Where should he find it purer than in Blanch?
If love ambitious sought a match of birth,
Whose veins bound richer blood than lady Blanch?

O dear Phebe,

If ever (as that ever may be near)

You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, Then shall you know the wounds invisible

That love's keen arrows make.

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