Private Romeo Page #2

Ladies that have their toes Unplagued

with corns will have about with you.

A hall, a hall! give room!

and foot it, girls.

She that makes dainty,

She, I'll swear, hath corns.

Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.

Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes

With nimble soles: I have a soul of lead

So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.

You are a lover;

borrow Cupid's wings,

And soar with them above a common bound.

I am too sore enpierced with his shaft

To soar...

Under love's heavy burden do I sink.

And, to sink in it, should you burden love;

Too great oppression for a tender thing.

Is love a tender thing?

It is too rough, Too rude,

too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

If love be rough with you,

be rough with love;

Prick love for pricking,

and you beat love down.

What lady is that,

which doth enrich the hand

of yonder knight?

I know not.

O, she doth teach the torches

to burn bright!

It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night

as a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear;

Beauty too rich for use,

for earth too dear!

So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,

As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.

The measure done,

I'll watch her place of stand,

And, touching hers, make

blessed my rude hand.

Did my heart love till now?

For swear it, sight! For I ne'er

saw true beauty till this night.

What?

What dares the slave

Come hither, cover'd with an antic face,

to fleer and scorn at our solemnity?

Why, how now. Wherefore storm you so?

This is our foe,

that villain Romeo.

Ttake no note of him.

Show a fair presence

and put off these frowns,

And ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.

- I'll not endure him!

- He shall be endured.

Am I the master here, or you?

Go to.

Go to!

Why,

'tis a shame.

Be quiet, or... for shame!

I'll make you quiet.

Sure.

I like your kicks in it, nice.

- Thanks.

- Is it like a...

- That's the loose string.

- It's cool.

I like it.

And what is... Oh!

If I profane with my

unworthiest hand

This holy shrine,

the gentle thin is this:

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand

To smooth that rough touch

with a tender kiss.

Good pilgrim, you do wrong

your hand too much,

Which mannerly devotion shows in this;

For saints have hands that

pilgrims' hands do touch,

And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.

Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

Ay, pilgrim, lips

that they must use in prayer.

O, then, dear saint,

let lips do what hands do;

They pray, grant thou,

lest faith turn to despair.

Saints do not move,

though grant for prayers' sake.

Then move not,

while my prayer's effect I take.

I will withdraw:

but this intrusion shall now

seeming sweet convert to bitter gall.

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