But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the mischievous moon,
Who has me soon sick and pale with want,
That thou her maid art before me as sweet:
Be not my meat, since I am ravenous;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green
No choice have I to wear it; cast self off.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!
O, that she knew my fate!
She speaks yet I hear pulsing: what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will savor it.
I am too bold, ’tis not to me that speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To distract in their spheres till I transform.
What if her eyes were there, they in her hand?
The brightness of her blood would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her life in heaven
Would through the air arc, spurt so bright
That wolves would howl and think it were a delight.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a mortal man again,
That I not eat that cheek!