But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east and Juliet is the sun! Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief that thou her maid art far more fair than she. Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green, and none but fools do wear it. Cast it off. It is my lady, O, it is my love!
She speaks. O, 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-upturned wondering eyes of mortals that fall back to gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds and sails upon the bosom of the air.
'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 part belonging to a man. O, be some other name. What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, retain that dear perfection which he owes without 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 baptis'd; Henceforth I never will be Romeo.