RomeMy love! My wife!

Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath,

Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.

Thou are not conquered.

Beauty"s ensign yet

Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,

And death"s pale flag is not advanced there.

Dear Juliet,

Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe

That unsubstantial Death is amorous,

Keeps thee here is dark to be his paramour?

Here. O, here will i set up my everlasting rest

And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars

From this world-wearied flesh.

Eyes, look your last!

Arms, thke your last embrace!

And,lips, O you