What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing, and think it were not night.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
Oh, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturnèd wondering eyes
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him,
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.
Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name:
Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
εἰ δ ̓ ἦν ἐκεῖ μὲν ὄμματ', ἐν δ ̓ αὐτῆς κάρᾳ
ἄστρω μετοικισθέντε, πρὸς παρηΐδα
μαυροῦτ ̓ ἂν ἄστρα, λαμπὰς ὡς παρ' ἥλιον,
μετάρσιός τ' ὀφθαλμὸς οὐρανοῦ διὰ
πέμποι σέλας τηλαυγές, ὀρνίθων μέλη
ἑφα κινῶν, ὡς σκότου πεφευγότος.
ἴδ ̓ ὡς παρειὰν εἰς χέρ ̓ ἀγκλίνασ ̓ ἔχει·
εἴθ ̓ ἦν ἐκείνης δεξιᾶς χειρὶς ἐγώ,
ὅπως ἐκείνης ἡπτόμην παρηΐδος.
ῬΩΜ. ἐφθέγξατ ̓· ὦ φθέγξαιο, φαιδιμὴ, πάλιν· ὕπερθε γάρ μου τῆσδ ̓ ἄγαλμα νυκτὸς εἶ, ὡς εὖτε θνητοῖς ἦλθεν ἄγγελος Θεοῦ, οἱ δ ̓ ἐκπλαγέντες ὑπτιάζουσιν κόρας, κἀς το πίσω κλίνουσιν ὥστε προσβλέπειν νεφελῶν ἐφιππεύοντα τῶν βραδυστόλων, πτεροῖσι ναυστολοῦντα κόλπον αἰθέρος.
ἸΟΥΛ. ὦ Ῥωμεὼν, τί δῆτα Ῥωμεὼν ἔφυς ;
πατέρα τ ̓ ἀναίνου κὤνομ ̓· εἰ δὲ μὴ θέλεις,
ὄμνυ φιλήτωρ τῆσδε πιστὸς ἐμμενεῖν,
κἀγὼ δόμων τε καὶ γένους ἐξίσταμαι.
Fond soother of my infant tear,
Fond sharer of my infant joy,
Doth not thy shade still linger here?
Am I not still thy soul's employ?
And oh, as when at close of day
Our virgins climb'd the sacred mount,
And harping sang their choral lay
And danced around Cassotis' fount;
As then 'twas all thy wish and care
That mine should be the simplest mien,
My voice and lyre the sweetest there,
My step the lightest on the green;
So now, each line of grace to mould,
Around my form thine eyes are shed,
Arranging every snowy fold,
And guiding every mazy tread.
And when I lead the hymning choir,
Thy spirit still unseen and free
Hovers between my lip and lyre,
And weds them into harmony.
O mihi quæ teneros mulcebas anxia fletus,
Quæ teneri risûs læta sodalis eras,
Non umbram hic, dilecta, tuam juvat usque morari?
Non animæ tibi sum cura superstes ego?
Nam memini, quoties sacri ad fastigia clivi
Sera puellarem duceret hora chorum,
Margine saltarent illæ Cassotidis undæ,
Et canerent socios voce lyrâque modos,
Hoc tibi erat curæ, summa hæc et sola voluntas,
Simplicior vestis ne foret ulla meâ,
Ne qua lyrâ nec voce canens me suavius illic,
Ne levior molli planta volaret humo.
Nunc etiam, ut veneres fingant mihi quasque decenter,
Lumina formam sunt tua fusa meam,
Quemque mihi celeris passûs rectura meatum,
Quemque mihi niveum compositura sinum.
Et tuus in sacro qui me duce tollitur hymno
Spiritus aerii numinis instar adest,
Et citharam medius volitans interque labellum
Suave melos junctis elicit e numeris.
He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one;
Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading :
Lofty and sour to them that loved him not;
But to those men that sought him, sweet as summer.
And though he were unsatisfied in getting,
(Which was a sin,) yet in bestowing, madam,
He was most princely: ever witness for him
Those twins of learning, that he raised in you,
Ipswich, and Oxford! one of which fell with him,
Unwilling to outlive the good that did it;
The other, though unfinish'd, yet so famous,
So excellent in art, and still so rising,
That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue.
His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him;
For then, and not till then, he felt himself,
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