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. It is my lady, O, it is my love! Oh, that she knew she were!

Is this government of Britain's Isle, and this the royalty of Albion's King?

Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs.

Tush! Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate; Talkers are no good doers: be assured We come to use our hands and not our tongues.

The weight of this sad time we must obey, Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long.

Love's stories written in love's richest books. To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes.

And thence from Athens turn away our eyes To seek new friends and stranger companies.