And when she put it on, she made me vow That I should neither sell nor give nor lose it. _Por._ That 'scuse serves many men to save their gifts. And if your wife be not a mad-woman, And know how well I have deserved the ring, She would not hold out enemy forever, For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you! [_Exeunt Portia and Nerissa._ _Ant._ My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring: Let his deservings and my love withal Be valued 'gainst your wife's commandment. _Bass._ Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him: Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst, Unto Antonio's house: away! make haste. [_Exit Gratiano._ Come, you and I will hither presently; And in the morning early will we both Fly toward Belmont: come, Antonio. [_Exeunt._ ROMEO AND JULIET (See Lamb's tale of _Romeo and Juliet_ in a preceding volume.) SCENE: _Capulet's orchard._ _Enter_ ROMEO. _Rom._ He jests at scars that never felt a wound. [_Juliet appears above at a window._ 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! O, that she knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it. I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks: Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright That birds would sing and think it were not night. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek! _Jul._ Ah, me! _Rom._ She speaks: 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. _Jul._ O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name: Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I'll no longer be a Capulet. _Rom._ [_Aside_] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?