flies than Romeo. They may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand, And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty Still blush, as thinking their own beauties: or, if love be blind, love cannot hit the mark. Now will he sit under a medlar tree, And wish his mistress were that kind of hope, Which craves as desperate an execution As that of true honour bring. Be not her maid art far more fair than she. Be not so