Marry, my child, early next Thursday mornThe gallant, young, and noble gentleman,The County Paris, at Saint Peter’s ChurchShall happily make thee there a joyful bride.
Now, by Saint Peter’s Church, and Peter too,He shall not make me there a joyful bride!I wonder at this haste, that I must wedEre he that should be husband comes to woo.I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam,I will not marry yet, and when I do I swearIt shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,Rather than Paris. These are news indeed!
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other partBelonging to a man. O, be some other name!What's in a name? That which we call a rose,By any other word would smell as sweet.So Romeo would — were he not Romeo called —Retain that dear perfection which he owesWithout that title. Romeo, doff thy name,And for that name, which is no part of thee,Take all myself.
I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized; Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
Yea, noise? Then I'll be brief. O happy dagger, This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die.