_Ro_: Now by _Iul_: Nay doo not sweare at all, 150 Or if thou sweare, sweare by thy glorious selfe, Which art the God of my Idolatrie, And il'e beleeue thee. _Ro_: If my true harts loue _Iul_: Sweare not at al, though I doo ioy in thee, 155 I haue small ioy in this contract to night, It is too rash, too sodaine, too vnaduisde, Too like the lightning that doth cease to bee Ere one can say it lightens. I heare some comming, Deare loue adew, sweet _Mountague_ be true, 160 Stay but a little and il'e come againe. _Ro_: O blessed blessed night, I feare being night, All this is but a dreame I heare and see, Too flattering true to be substantiall. _Iul_: Three wordes good _Romeo_ and good night indeed. 165 If that thy bent of loue be honourable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word to morrow By one that il'e procure to come to thee: Where and what time thou wilt performe that right, And al my fortunes at thy foote il'e lay, 170 And follow thee my Lord through out the world. _Ro_: Loue goes toward loue like schoole boyes from their bookes, But loue from loue, to schoole with heauie lookes. _Iul: Romeo, Romeo_, O for a falkners voice, To lure this Tassell gentle backe againe: 175 Bondage is hoarse and may not crie aloud, Els would I teare the Caue where Eccho lies And make her airie voice as hoarse as mine, With repetition of my _Romeos_ name. _Romeo?_ 180 _Ro_: It is my soule that calles vpon my name, How siluer sweet sound louers tongues in night. _Iul_: Romeo? _Ro_: Madame. _Iul_: At what a clocke to morrow shall I send? 185 _Ro_: At the houre of nine. _Iul_: I will not faile, tis twentie yeares till then. _Romeo_ I haue forgot why I did call thee backe. _Rom_: Let me stay here till you remember it. _Iul_: I shall forget to haue thee still staie here, 190 Remembring how I loue thy companie. _Rom_: And il'e stay still to haue thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this. _Iu_: Tis almost morning I would haue thee gone, But yet no further then a wantons bird, 195 Who lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a pore prisoner in his twisted giues, And with a silke thred puls it backe againe, Too louing iealous of his libertie. _Ro_: Would I were thy bird. 200 _Iul_: Sweet so would I, Yet I should kill thee with much cherrishing thee. Good night, good night, parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow.