1 And we mean well in going to this mask; But 'tis no wit to go.'
2 Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
3 Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in But every man betake him to his legs.
4 I bear no hatred, blessed man; for lo, My intercession likewise steads my foe.
5 I'll go along, no such sight to be shown, But to rejoice in splendour of my own.
6 Romeo, doff thy name, And for thy name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself.
7 Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon.
8 I saw no man use you at his pleasure; if I had, my weapon should quickly have been out.
9 I am no pilot; yet wert thou as far As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea, I should adventure for such merchandise.
10 I'll look to like, if looking liking move: But no more deep will I endart mine eye Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
11 O, thou art deceived; I would have made it short, for I was come to the whole depth of my tale, and meant indeed to occupy the argument no longer.
12 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.
13 That book in many's eyes doth share the glory, That in gold clasps locks in the golden story; So shall you share all that he doth possess, By having him, making yourself no less.
14 With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls, For stony limits cannot hold love out, And what love can do, that dares love attempt: Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.
15 Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract tonight; It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden, Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say It lightens.
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 The date is out of such prolixity: We'll have no Cupid hoodwink'd with a scarf, Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath, Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper; Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke After the prompter, for our entrance: But let them measure us by what they will, We'll measure them a measure, and be gone.
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