_Ro_: He iests at scars that neuer felt a wound: 40 But soft, what light forth yonder window breakes? It is the East, and _Iuliet_ is the Sunne, Arise faire Sunne, and kill the enuious Moone That is alreadie sicke, and pale with griefe: That thou her maid, art far more faire than she. 45 Be not her maide since she is enuious, Her vestall liuerie is but pale and greene, And none but fooles doe weare it, cast it off. She speakes, but she sayes nothing. What of that? Her eye discourseth, I will answere it. 50 I am too bold, tis not to me she speakes, Two of the fairest starres in all the skies, Hauing some busines, doe entreat her eyes To twinckle in their spheares till they returne. What if her eyes were there, they in her head, 55 The brightnes of her cheekes would shame those stars: As day-light doth a Lampe, her eyes in heauen, Would through the airie region streame so bright, That birdes would sing, and thinke it were not night. Oh now she leanes her cheekes vpon her hand, 60 I would I were the gloue to that same hand, That I might kisse that cheeke. _Iul_: Ay me. _Rom_: She speakes, Oh speake againe bright Angell: For thou art as glorious to this night beeing ouer my head, 65 As is a winged messenger of heauen Vnto the white vpturned woondring eyes, Of mortals that fall backe to gaze on him, When he bestrides the lasie pacing cloudes, And sailes vpon the bosome of the aire. 70 _Iul_: Ah _Romeo, Romeo_, wherefore art thou _Romeo?_ Denie thy Father, and refuse thy name, Or if thou wilt not be but sworne my loue, And il'e no longer be a _Capulet_. _Rom_: Shall I heare more, or shall I speake to this? 75 _Iul_: Tis but thy name that is mine enemie. Whats _Mountague_? It is nor hand nor foote, Nor arme, nor face, nor any other part. Whats in a name? That which we call a Rose, By any other name would smell as sweet: 80 So _Romeo_ would, were he not _Romeo_ cald, Retaine the diuine perfection he owes: Without that title _Romeo_ part thy name, And for that name which is no part of thee, Take all I haue. 85 _Rom_: I take thee at thy word, Call me but loue, and il'e be new Baptisde, Henceforth I neuer will be _Romeo_. _Iu_: What man art thou, that thus beskrind in night, Doest stumble on my counsaile? 90 _Ro_: By a name I know not how to tell thee. My name deare Saint is hatefull to my selfe, Because it is an enemie to thee. Had I it written I would teare the word.