Jul.Deny him.
Rom.Then my mother.
She does not know I'm out.
Jul.Oh, what a bother!
Rom. What is a bother, sweet?
Jul.That you,
My Romeo, should be a Montague,
And I a Capulet—and yet what's in a name?
Were you called Jones, I'd love you all the same;
You'd be no worse: mark this, I do entreat—
The Serpentine by other name would smell as sweet.
Rom. Would I were some one else——
Jul.But fate assigns
A bitter lot, and rules the hardest lines.
Rom. (sneezes, and as if with cold in his head) It's getting chilly,
dear, but hear me swear—
By the boon, green cheese of heaven—look there,
Shining as brightly as a silver spoon.
Jul. (sneezing, and with a cold) Swear not by the boon—the inconstant boon,
Who changes oft, and twelve times in a year
Hooks it like a tenant in arrear.
Rom. What shall I swear by, then, to gain a seat
In your affections?