Your eyes are load-stars, and your tongue’s sweet air,
More tunable than lark to shepherds’ ear,
When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.
Helena.—You have bereft me of all words.
Romeo (aside).—
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
[Knock at door.]
(Aloud.) Ah, me! for aught that I could ever read;