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ROMEO . It is my soul that calls upon my name . How silver - sweet sound lovers ’ tongues by night , Like softest music to attending ears . JULIET . Romeo . ROMEO . My dear ? JULIET . What o’clock tomorrow Shall I send to thee ? ROMEO . By the hour of nine . JULIET . I will not fail . ’ Tis twenty years till then . I have forgot why I did call thee back . ROMEO . Let me stand here till thou remember it . JULIET . I shall forget , to have thee still stand there , Remembering how I love thy company . ROMEO . And I’ll still stay , to have thee still forget , Forgetting any other home but this . JULIET . ’ Tis almost morning ; I would have thee gone , And yet no farther than a wanton’s bird , That 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 . ROMEO . I would I were thy bird . JULIET . 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 . ] ROMEO . 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 Sire’s cell , His help to crave and my dear hap to tell . [ Exit . ] SCENE III . Friar Lawrence’s Cell . Enter Friar Lawrence with a basket . FRIAR LAWRENCE . The grey - ey’d morn smiles on the frowning night , Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light ; And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reels From forth day’s pathway , made by Titan’s fiery wheels Now , ere the sun advance his burning eye , The day to cheer , and night’s dank dew to dry , I must upfill this osier cage of ours With baleful weeds and precious - juiced flowers . The earth that’s nature’s mother , is her tomb ; What is her burying grave , that is her womb : And from her womb children of divers kind We sucking on her natural bosom find . Many for many virtues excellent , None but for some , and yet all different . O , mickle is the powerful grace that lies In plants , herbs , stones , and their true qualities . For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give ; Nor aught so good but , strain’d from that fair use , Revolts from true birth , stumbling on abuse . Virtue itself turns vice being misapplied , And vice sometime’s by action dignified . Enter Romeo . Within the infant rind of this weak flower Poison hath residence , and medicine power : For this , being smelt , with that part cheers each part ; Being tasted , slays all senses with the heart . Two such opposed kings encamp them still In man as well as herbs , — grace and rude will ; And where the worser is predominant , Full soon the canker death eats up that plant . ROMEO . Good morrow , father .
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