A3 S5 Flashcards
A3 S5
Wilt thou be gone so. It is not yet near day.
It was the nightingale, and not the lark
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree.
Believe me love, it was the nightingale.
It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Yon light is not daylight. I know it, I. It is some meteor that the sun exhaled, To be to thee this night a torchbearer, And light thee on thy way to Mantua. Therefore stay yet. Thou needs't not be gone.
Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I have more care to stay than will to go.
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is’t, my soul? Let’s talk; it is not day.
It is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings.
O, now, be gone! More light and light it grows!
Madam!
Nurse?
Your lady mother is coming to your chamber.
The day is broke; be wary, look about.
Then let day in, and let life out!
Farewell, farewell, one kiss, and I’ll descend.
Art thou gone so? Lord, love, ay, husband, friend!
I must hear from thee every day in the hour,
For in a minute there are many days.
O, by this count I shall be much in years
Ere I again behold my Romeo!
Farewell!
O thinks’t thou we shall ever meet again?
I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come.
O God, I have an ill-divining soul!
Methinks I see thee, now thou art below,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb.
Either my eyesight fails, or thou looks’t pale.
And trust me, love, in my eye so do you.
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu!
O Fortune, Fortune! All men call the fickle.
If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him
That is renowned for faith? Be fickle, Fortune,
For then I hope thou wilt not keep him long,
But send him back!
Ho, daughter! Are you up?
Why, how now, Juliet!
Madam, I am not well.
Evermore weeping for your cousin’s death?
What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?
An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live;
Therefore, have done. Some grief shows much of love,
But much of grief shows still some want of wit.
Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.
So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend
Which you weep for.
Feeling so the loss,
I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.
Well, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death,
As that the villain lives which slaughtered him.
What villain?
That same villain Romeo.
God pardon him, I do with all my heart.
And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.
That is, because the traitor murderer lives.
We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not.
Then weep no more.
Indeed, I shall never be satisfied With Romeo till I behold him....dead... Is my poor heart for such a kinsman vexed. O how my heart abhors To hear him named and cannot come to him To wreak the love I bore my cousin Upon the body that hath slaughtered him