1 Romeo can, Though heaven cannot.
2 By heaven I love thee better than myself; For I come hither arm'd against myself.
3 So smile the heavens upon this holy act That after-hours with sorrow chide us not.
4 She wakes; and I entreated her come forth And bear this work of heaven with patience.
5 Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems Upon so soft a subject as myself.
6 Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven so high above our heads.
7 Your part in her you could not keep from death, But heaven keeps his part in eternal life.
8 The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, Thy old groans yet ring in mine ancient ears.
9 Heaven and yourself Had part in this fair maid, now heaven hath all, And all the better is it for the maid.
10 O, here comes my Nurse, And she brings news, and every tongue that speaks But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence.
11 Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
12 Heaven is here Where Juliet lives, and every cat and dog, And little mouse, every unworthy thing, Live here in heaven and may look on her, But Romeo may not.
13 But if thou jealous dost return to pry In what I further shall intend to do, By heaven I will tear thee joint by joint, And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs.
14 But, gentle Nurse, I pray thee leave me to myself tonight; For I have need of many orisons To move the heavens to smile upon my state, Which, well thou know'st, is cross and full of sin.
15 Come gentle night, come loving black-brow'd night, Give me my Romeo, and when I 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.
16 At my poor house look to behold this night Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light: Such comfort as do lusty young men feel When well apparell'd April on the heel Of limping winter treads, even such delight Among fresh female buds shall you this night Inherit at my house.
17 O speak again bright angel, for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the air.
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