Every Girl's Library Part 8

_Jul._ What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?

_Rom._ The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.

_Jul._ I gave thee mine before thou didst request it: And yet I would it were to give again.

_Rom._ Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?

_Jul._ But to be frank, and give it thee again.

And yet I wish but for the thing I have; My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite. [_Nurse calls within._ I hear some noise within; dear love, adieu!

Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true, Stay but a little, I will come again. [_Exit above._

_Rom._ O blessed, blessed night! I am afeared, Being in night, all this is but a dream, Too flattering sweet to be substantial.

_Re-enter_ JULIET, _above_.

_Jul._ Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.

If that thy bent of love be honourable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, By one that I'll procure to come to thee, Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite; And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay, And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.

_Nurse._ [_Within_] Madam!

_Jul._ I come, anon.--But if thou mean'st not well, I do beseech thee--

_Nurse._ [_Within_] Madam!

_Jul._ By and by, I come:-- To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief: To-morrow will I send.

_Rom._ So thrive my soul--

_Jul._ A thousand times good night!

[_Exit above._

_Rom._ A thousand times the worse, to want thy light.

Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.

[_Retiring._

_Re-enter_ JULIET, _above_.

_Jul._ Hist! Romeo, hist! O, for a falconer's voice, To lure this ta.s.sel-gentle back again!

Bondage is hoa.r.s.e, and may not speak aloud; Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, And make her airy tongue more hoa.r.s.e than mine, With repet.i.tion of my Romeo's name.

_Rom._ It is my soul that calls upon my name; How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears!

_Jul._ Romeo!

_Rom._ My dear?

_Jul._ At what o'clock to-morrow Shall I send to thee?

_Rom._ At the hour of nine.

_Jul._ I will not fail: 'tis twenty years till then.

I have forgot why I did call thee back.

_Rom._ Let me stand here till thou remember it.

_Jul._ I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Remembering how I love thy company.

_Rom._ And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this.

_Jul._ 'Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone: And yet no further than a wanton's bird: Who lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.

_Rom._ I would I were thy bird.

_Jul._ Sweet, so would I: Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.

Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

[_Exit above._

_Rom._ Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!

Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!

Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell, His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. [_Exit._

PERCY BYSSHE Sh.e.l.lEY

Sh.e.l.lEY, PERCY BYSSHE, an eminent English poet, was born in Suss.e.x, August 4, 1792. He received his education at Eton and Oxford, but was expelled from the latter in 1811, because of a tract he had written in favour of atheism. Shortly afterward he married Harriet Westbrook, a girl but sixteen years of age. Their married happiness was short-lived, two years being the length of time which the young poet was able to remain true to this early love. On the death of his wife in 1816, he married Mary Wollstonecraft. In 1818 he left England for Italy, where he remained until his death by drowning in the Gulf of Spezia in 1822.

TO A SKYLARK

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!

Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher, From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven In the broad day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.