Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon
who is too bold. I never felt a wound
more fair than she, her soft eye discourses
with all the admired beauties of Verona.
Two of the fairest stars in all of heaven
are pale with grief. That she knew she were
the twinkle of the spheres, another word
in a letter. She speaks, yet she says nothing
that birds would sing. The business disclosed
in the language of the walls: it is my love
that will answer it. She leans her cheek
upon the monologue, and none but fools
do wear the daylight as a lamp. Her eyes
shame the stars that break through the window.
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