1 O brother Montague, give me thy hand.
2 See how she leans her cheek upon her hand.
3 Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise.
4 Give me thy hand; 'tis late; farewell; good night.'
5 O that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek.
6 Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon.
7 If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand.
8 The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand, And touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
9 As if that name, Shot from the deadly level of a gun, Did murder her, as that name's cursed hand Murder'd her kinsman.
10 Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo's hand did slay; Romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink How nice the quarrel was, and urg'd withal Your high displeasure.
11 Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
12 Though his face be better than any man's, yet his leg excels all men's, and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though they be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare.
13 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.
14 They may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand, And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin.
15 God join'd my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands; And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo's seal'd, Shall be the label to another deed, Or my true heart with treacherous revolt Turn to another, this shall slay them both.
16 Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone, And yet no farther than a wanton's bird, That lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.
17 All this uttered With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow'd Could not take truce with the unruly spleen Of Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts With piercing steel at bold Mercutio's breast, Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats Cold death aside, and with the other sends It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity Retorts it.
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