1 At thy good heart's oppression.
2 Gregory, remember thy washing blow.
3 Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander'd it.
4 Draw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.
5 Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead; And Paris too.
6 I would thou wert so happy by thy stay To hear true shrift.
7 Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting, it is a most sharp sauce.
8 O, she knew well Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell.
9 Thy Juliet is alive, For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead.
10 Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote The unreasonable fury of a beast.
11 I do but keep the peace, put up thy sword, Or manage it to part these men with me.
12 The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, Thy old groans yet ring in mine ancient ears.
13 O sweet Juliet, Thy beauty hath made me effeminate And in my temper soften'd valour's steel.
14 For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea, Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is, Sailing in this salt flood, the winds, thy sighs, Who raging with thy tears and they with them, Without a sudden calm will overset Thy tempest-tossed body.
15 If that thy bent of love be honourable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow, 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.
16 Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning, One pain is lessen'd by another's anguish; Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning; One desperate grief cures with another's languish: Take thou some new infection to thy eye, And the rank poison of the old will die.
17 Thy noble shape is but a form of wax, Digressing from the valour of a man; Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish; Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Misshapen in the conduct of them both, Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask, Is set afire by thine own ignorance, And thou dismember'd with thine own defence.
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