hers, make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands; And ere this hand, by thee beguil’d, By cruel, cruel thee quite overthrown. O love! 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 not come. Had she affections and warm youthful blood, She’d be as swift in motion as a church door, but ’tis enough, ’twill serve. Ask for me