1 But saying o'er what I have said before.
2 I long to die, If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy.
3 Look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
4 Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense thou wilt.
5 Proud can I never be of what I hate; But thankful even for hate that is meant love.
6 That is no slander, sir, which is a truth, And what I spake, I spake it to my face.
7 O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do: They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
8 As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine; And all combin'd, save what thou must combine By holy marriage.
9 Not Romeo, Prince, he was Mercutio's friend; His fault concludes but what the law should end, The life of Tybalt.
10 Pray you, sir, a word: and as I told you, my young lady bid me enquire you out; what she bade me say, I will keep to myself.
11 Amen, amen, but come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy That one short minute gives me in her sight.
12 Do thou but close our hands with holy words, Then love-devouring death do what he dare, It is enough I may but call her mine.
13 Examine every married lineament, And see how one another lends content; And what obscur'd in this fair volume lies, Find written in the margent of his eyes.
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 And you be mine, I'll give you to my friend; And you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, For by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee good.
16 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.
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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