Ay me! Sad hours seem long. Was that my father that went hence so fast?
It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?
Not having that which, having, makes them short
In love?
Out.
Out of her favor, where I am in love.
Of love?
Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will!
Alas, that love, so gentle in his view, should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!
Good heart, at what?
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this. Dost thou not laugh?