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Seite 33 - But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
Seite 115 - Shall I believe That unsubstantial death is amorous ; And that the lean abhorred monster keeps Thee here in dark to be his paramour? For fear of that, I will still stay with thee, And never from this palace of dim night Depart again: here, here will I remain With worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh.
Seite 22 - Of healths five-fathom deep ; and then anon Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two And sleeps again.
Seite 36 - Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny What I have spoke: but farewell compliment! Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say 'Ay,' And I will take thy word: yet, if thou swear'st, Thou mayst prove false: at lovers' perjuries, They say, Jove laughs.
Seite 37 - Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night: It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden ; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be, Ere one can say — It lightens.
Seite 34 - 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-pacing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the air.
Seite 66 - Come, night, come, Romeo, come, thou day in night : For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow on a raven's back.
Seite 37 - I'll prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware, My true love's passion: therefore pardon me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discovered.
Seite 80 - It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale ; look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops; I must be gone and live, or stay and die.