1
He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
2
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
3
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
4
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
5
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
6
That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.
7
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
8
Her vestal livery is but sick and green
9
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
10
It is my lady, O, it is my love!
11
O, that she knew she were!
12
She speaks yet she says nothing; what of that?
13
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
14
I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks.