I am hurt.
A plague o’ both houses! I am sped.
Is he gone and hath nothing?
But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the East, and Juliet is the sun.
If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrineMetaphor,
It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night,Alliteration
Like softest music to attending ears!
Lady, by yonder blessèd moon I vow,
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops—
He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
As a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear—Simili
Beauty too rich for use,
He that is strooken blind cannot forget
The precious treasure of his eyesight lost.
A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.
Well in that hit you miss.
Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love.
Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
O any thing,
Ay me, sad hours seem long.