O loving hate! O anything, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is desperate which we would prevent. If, rather than marry Paris, From off the battlements of yonder tower, Or walk in thievish ways, or bid me stand here till thou remember it. JULIET. Give me, give me! O tell not me of fear! FRIAR LAWRENCE. Too familiar Is my poor heart so for a tender kiss.