Will you tell me that?
His son was but a ward two years ago.
[To a Servingman] What lady is that, which doth
enrich the hand
Of yonder knight?
I know not, sir.
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich
jewel in an Ethiope's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand,
touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne'er saw
true beauty till this night.
This, by his voice, should be a Montague.
Fetch me my rapier, boy. What dares the slave
cover'd with an antic face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
Now, by the stock and honour of my kin,
strike him dead, I hold it not a sin.
Why, how now, kinsman! wherefore storm you so?
Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe,
A villain that is hither come in spite,
To scorn at our solemnity this
Young Romeo is it?
'Tis he, that villain Romeo.
Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone;
He bears him like a portly gentleman;
And, to say truth, Verona
brags of him
To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth:
I would not for the wealth of all the town
my house do him disparagement:
Therefore be patient, take no note of him:
It is my will, the which if thou
Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,
And ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.
It fits, when such a villain is a guest:
I'll not endure him.
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