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| Benvolio |
Good-morrow, cousin. |
| Romeo |
Is the day so young? |
| Benvolio |
But new struck nine. |
| Romeo |
Ay me! sad hours seem long. |
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Was that my father that went hence so fast? |
| Benvolio |
It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours? |
| Romeo |
Not having that, which, having, makes them short. |
| Romeo |
Out of her favour, where I am in love. |
| Benvolio |
Alas, that love, so gentle in his view, |
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Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof! |
| Romeo |
Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, |
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Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will! |
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Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here? |
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Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. |
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Here's much to do with hate, but more with love. |
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Why, then, O brawling love, O loving hate, |
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O anything, of nothing first create; |
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O heavy lightness, serious vanity, |
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Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms, |
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Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, |
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Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! |
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This love feel I, that feel no love in this. |
| Benvolio |
No, coz, I rather weep. |
| Romeo |
Good heart, at what? |
| Benvolio |
At thy good heart's oppression. |
| Romeo |
Why, such is love's transgression. |
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Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, |
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Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest |
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With more of thine: this love that thou hast shown |
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Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. |
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Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; |
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Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; |
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Being vex'd a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears: |
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What is it else? a madness most discreet, |
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A choking gall and a preserving sweet. |
| Benvolio |
Soft! I will go along; |
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An if you leave me so, you do me wrong. |
| Romeo |
Tut, I have lost myself; I am not here; |
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This is not Romeo, he's some other where. |
| Benvolio |
Tell me in sadness, who is that you love. |
| Romeo |
What, shall I groan and tell thee? |
| Benvolio |
Groan! why, no. But sadly tell me who. |
| Romeo |
Bid a sick man in sadness make his will: |
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Ah, word ill urged to one that is so ill! |
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In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman. |
| Benvolio |
I aim'd so near, when I supposed you loved. |
| Romeo |
A right good mark-man! And she's fair I love. |
| Benvolio |
A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit. |
| Romeo |
Well, in that hit you miss: she'll not be hit |
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With Cupid's arrow; she hath Dian's wit; |
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And, in strong proof of chastity well arm'd, |
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From love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd. |
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She will not stay the siege of loving terms, |
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Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes, |
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Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold: |
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O, she is rich in beauty, only poor, |
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That when she dies with beauty dies her store. |
| Benvolio |
Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste? |
| Romeo |
She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste, |
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For beauty starved with her severity |
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Cuts beauty off from all posterity. |
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She is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair, |
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To merit bliss by making me despair: |
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She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow |
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Do I live dead that live to tell it now. |
| Benvolio |
Be ruled by me, forget to think of her. |
| Romeo |
O, teach me how I should forget to think. |
| Benvolio |
By giving liberty unto thine eyes; |
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To call hers exquisite, in question more: |
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These happy masks that kiss fair ladies' brows |
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Being black put us in mind they hide the fair; |
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He that is strucken blind cannot forget |
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The precious treasure of his eyesight lost: |
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Show me a mistress that is passing fair, |
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What doth her beauty serve, but as a note |
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Where I may read who pass'd that passing fair? |
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Farewell: thou canst not teach me to forget. |
| Benvolio |
I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt. |
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