/lit/ - Literature

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Give it your best shot /lit/

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!
O, that she knew she were!
She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!