Cleveland Moffett - "The Conquest of America"

Victor Appleton - "Tom Swift in the City of Gold"

Mrs. Harriet A. Adams - "Dawn"

F. B. Vaux - "Domestic pleasures"

Editorial
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Canadian Elocutionist

A >> Anna Kelsey Howard >> The Canadian Elocutionist




QUEEN. O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain!

HAM. O, throw away the worser part of it,
And live the purer with the other half.
Good night: but go not to mine uncle's room;
Assume a virtue, if you have it not
Once more, good night:
And when you are desirous to be blessed,
I'll blessing beg of you.
I must be cruel, only to be kind:
Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.

_Shakespeare._

* * * * *

MACBETH.

ACT II.--SCENE I.

MACBETH. Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee--
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from a heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going,
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses
Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood,
Which was not so before,--There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business, which informs
Thus to mine eyes.--Now o'er the one-half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep: witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings: and wither'd murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, toward his design
Moves like a ghost.--Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
The very stones prate of my where-about,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it.--Whilst I threat, he lives:
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.

[_A bell rings_.

I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. [_Exit_.

* * * * *

SCENE II.--_The same._

_Enter Lady Macbeth._

LADY M. That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold:
What hath quench'd them hath given me fire:--
Hark! Peace! It was the owl that shriek'd,
The fatal bellman which gives the stern'st good night.
He is about it: The doors are open;
And the surfeited grooms do mock their charge with snores:
I have drugged their possets,
That death and nature do contend about them,
Whether they live, or die.

MACB. [_Within,_] Who's there?--what, hoa!

LADY M. Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd,
And 'tis not done:--the attempt, and not the deed,
Confound us:--Hark!--I laid their daggers ready,
He could not miss them.--Had he not resembled
My father as he slept I had done't--My husband!

_Enter Macbeth._

MACB. I have done the deed:--Didst thou not hear a noise?--

LADY M. I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry.
Did you not speak? MACB. When?

LADY M. Now.

MACB. As I descended?

LADY M. Ay. MACB. Hark!--
Who lies i' the second chamber?

LADY M. Donalbain.

MACB. This is a sorry sight. [_Looking on his hands._

LADY M. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.

MACB. There's one did laugh in his sleep,
And one cried "murther!" that they did wake each other;
I stood and heard them: but they did say their prayers,
And address'd them again to sleep.

LADY M. There are two lodg'd together.

MACB. One cried, "God bless us!" and "Amen," the other;
As they had seen me, with these hangman's hands.
Listening their fear, I could not say, "Amen,"
When they did say, God bless us.

LADY M. Consider it not so deeply.

MACB. But wherefore could I not pronounce, "Amen?"
I had most need of blessing, and "Amen"
Stuck in my throat.

LADY M. These deeds must not be thought
After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

MACB. Methought, I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murther sleep,"--the innocent sleep;
Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.

LADY M. What do you mean?

MACB. Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house:
"Glamis hath murther'd sleep: and therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more!"

LADY M. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane,
You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brainsickly of things--Go, get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.--
Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
They must lie there: go, carry them; and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood.

MACB. I'll go no more
I am afraid to think what I have done;
Look on't again I dare not.

LADY M. Infirm of purpose!
Give me the daggers; the sleeping, and the dead,
Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal,
For it must seem their guilt.

[_Exit. Knocking within._

MACB. Whence is that knocking?
How is't with me, when every noise appals me?
What hands are here? Ha! they pluck out mine eyes!
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnardine,
Making the green one red.

_Re-enter Lady Macbeth._

LADY M. My hands are of your colour; but I shame
To wear a heart so white. [_Knock_.] I hear a knocking
At the south entry:--retire we to our chamber;
A little water clears us of this deed;
How easy is it then! Your constancy
Hath left you unattended.--[_Knocking_.] Hark! more knocking:
Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us,
And show us to be watchers:--Be not lost
So poorly in your thoughts.

MACB. To know my deed, 'twere best not to know myself.
[_Knocking_
Wake Duncan with thy knocking; I would thou could'st'
[_Exeunt._

* * * * *

SLEEP-WALKING SCENE FROM MACBETH.

ACT V.

SCENE I.--_Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle.

Enter a Doctor of Physic, and a waiting Gentlewoman._

DOCT. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your
report. When was it she last walked?

GENT. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her
bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper,
fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to
bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.

DOCT. A great perturbation in nature! to receive at once the benefit of
sleep, and do the effects of watching.--In this slumbery agitation,
besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have
you heard her say?

GENT. That, sir, which I will not report after her.

DOCT. You may to me; and 'tis most meet you should.

GENT. Neither to you, nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech.

_Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper._

Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast
asleep. Observe her: stand close.

DOCT. How came she by that light?

GENT. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 'tis her
command.

DOCT. You see, her eyes are open.

GENT. Ay, but their sense is shut.

DOCT. What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands.

GENT. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands.
I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.

LADY M. Yet here's a spot.

DOCT. Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my
remembrance the more strongly.

LADY M. Out, damned spot! out, I say!--One; Two: Why, then 'tis time to do
't!--Hell is murky!--Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeared! What need
we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?--Yet who
would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him!

DOCT. Do you mark that?

LADY M. The thane of Fife had a wife: where is she now?--What, will these
hands ne'er be clean?--No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar
all with this starting.

DOCT. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.

GENT. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: Heaven knows
what she has known.

LADY M. Here's the smell of the blood still; all the perfumes of Arabia
will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!

DOCT. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.

GENT. I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the dignity of the
whole body.

DOCT. Well, well, well,--

GENT. Pray God it be, sir.

DOCT. This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have
walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds.

LADY M. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale:--I tell
you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out on's grave.

DOCT. Even so?

LADY M. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate. Come, come, come,
come, give me your hand. What's done cannot be undone: To bed, to bed, to
bed.

_Exit Lady Macbeth._

* * * * *

KING JOHN.

ACT III.

SCENE III.

KING JOHN _and_ HUBERT.

K. JOHN. Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert.
We owe thee much; within this wall of flesh
There is a soul counts thee her creditor,
And with advantage means to pay thy love:
And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath
Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished.
Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say,--
But I will fit it with some better time.
By heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham'd
To say what good respect I have of thee.

HUB. I am much bounden to your majesty.

K. JOHN. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet;
But thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow,
Yet it shall come for me to do thee good.
I had a thing to say,--but let it go:
The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton and too full of gauds,
To give me audience:--If the midnight bell
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
Sound on into the drowsy race of night;
If this same were a church-yard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,
Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy--thick,
(Which else, runs tickling up and down the veins,
Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes,
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,
A passion hateful to my purposes;)
Or if that thou could'st see me without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone.
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words;
Then, in despite of brooded, watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:
But ah, I will not:--Yet I love thee well:
And, by my troth, I think, thou lov'st me well.

HUB. So well, that what you bid me undertake,
Though that my death were adjunct to my act,
By heaven, I would do it.

K. JOHN. Do not I know thou would'st?
Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye
On yon young boy; I'll tell thee what, my friend,
He is a very serpent in my way;
And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread
He lies before me: Dost thou understand me?
Thou art his keeper. HUB. And I'll keep him so,
That he shall not offend your majesty.

K. JOHN. Death. HUB. My lord?

K. JOHN. A grave. HUB. He shall not live.

K. JOHN. Enough.
I could be merry now: Hubert, I love thee.
Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee:
Remember.--

* * * * *

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

HUBERT _and_ ARTHUR.

HUB. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand
Within the arras; when I strike my foot
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth,
And bind the boy, which you will find with me,
Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.

1. ATTEND. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

HUB. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you: look to't.--

_Exeunt_ Attendants.

Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.

_Enter Arthur._

ARTH. Good morrow, Hubert.

HUB. Good morrow, little prince.

ARTH. As little prince (having so great a title
To be more prince), as may be.--You are sad.

HUB. Indeed, I have been merrier.

ARTH. Mercy on me!
Methinks, nobody should be sad but I:
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be as merry as the day is long;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practises more harm to me:
He is afraid of me, and I of him:
Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?
No, indeed, is 't not; And I would to heaven
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.

HUB. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead:
Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. [_Aside._

ARTH. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day:
In sooth, I would you were a little sick;
That I might sit all night, and watch with you;
I warrant I love you more than you do me.

HUB. His words do take possession of my bosom.--
Read here, young Arthur [_Shewing a paper._

How now, foolish rheum. [_Aside._
Turning dispiteous torture out of door!
I must be brief; lest resolution drop
Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.
Can you not read it? is it not fair writ?

ARTH. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect:
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?

HUB. Young boy, I must. ARTH. And will you?

HUB. And I will.

ARTH. Have you the heart? When your head did but ake,
I knit my hand-kercher about your brows,
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me),
And I did never ask it you again;
And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time;
Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief?
Or, What good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning; do, an if you will;
If heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill,
Why, then you must.--Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes, that never did, nor never shall,
So much as frown on you?

HUB. I have sworn to do it;
And with hot irons must I burn them out.

ARTH. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it!
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,
Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears,
And quench his fiery indignation,
Even in the matter of mine innocence;
Nay, after that, consume away in rust,
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron?
And if an angel should have come to me,
And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes,
I would not have believ'd him. No tongue but Hubert's--

HUB. Come forth. [_Stamps.

Re-enter_ Attendants, _with Cords, Irons, etc._

Do as I bid you do.

ARTH. O, save me, Hubert, save me? my eyes are out,
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

HUB. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

ARTH. Alas, what need you be so boist'rous rough?
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angerly:
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.

HUB. Go, stand within; let me alone with him.

IST. ATTEND. I am best pleas'd to be from such a deed.

[_Exeunt_ Attendants.

ARTH. Alas! I then have chid away my friend;
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart:--
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.

HUB. Come, boy, prepare yourself.

ARTH. Is there no remedy?

HUB. None, but to lose your eyes.

ARTH. O heaven!--that there were a mote in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense!
Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

HUB. Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.

ARTH. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes;
Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert!
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes. O, spare mine eyes;
Though to no use, but still to look on you!
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,
And would not harm me.

HUB. I can heat it, boy.

ARTH. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief,
Being create for comfort, to be us'd
In undeserv'd extremes: See else yourself;
There is no malice in this burning coal;
The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,
And strew'd repentant ashes on his head.

HUB. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.

ARTH. And if you do, you will but make it blush,
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert:
Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes;
And, like a dog that is compelled to fight,
Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.
All things that you should use to do me wrong
Deny their office; only you do lack
That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends,
Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.

HUB. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes;
Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,
With this same very iron to burn them out.

ARTH. O, now you look like Hubert! all this while
You were disguised.

HUB. Peace: no more. Adieu;
Your uncle must not know but you are dead;
I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports.
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure,
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
Will not offend thee.

ARTH. O heaven!--I thank you, Hubert.

HUB Silence; no more: Go closely in with me.
Much danger do I undergo for thee. [_Exeunt_

* * * * *

ROMEO AND JULIET.

BALCONY SCENE.

ROMEO. He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

[JULIET _appears on the Balcony, and sits down._

But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid, art far more fair than she.
"It is my lady; Oh! it is my love:
Oh, that she knew she were!"
She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses: I will answer it.
I am too bold. Oh, were those eyes in heaven,
They would through the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing, and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!

JULIET. Ah, me!

ROMEO. She speaks, she speaks!
Oh, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven
To the upturned wond'ring eyes of mortals,
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.

JULIET. Oh, Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name:
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.

ROMEO. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

JULIET. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title! Romeo, doff thy name;
And for that name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.

ROMEO. I take thee at thy word!
Call me but love, I will forswear my name
And never more be Romeo.

JULIET. What man art thou, that, thus bescreened in night
So stumblest on my counsel?

ROMEO. By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am!
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee.

JULIET. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words
Of that tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound!
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

ROMEO. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.

JULIET. How cam'st thou hither?--tell me--and for what?
The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb;
And the place, death, considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen find thee here.

ROMEO. With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls;
For stony limits cannot hold love out;
And what love can do, that dares love attempt;
Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.

JULIET. If they do see thee here, they'll murder thee.

ROMEO. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye,
Than twenty of their swords! look thou but sweet,
And I, am proof against their enmity.

JULIET. I would not, for the world, they saw thee here.
By whose direction found'st thou out this place?

ROMEO. By love, who first did prompt me to inquire;
He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.
I am no pilot; yet wert thou as far
As that vast shore washed by the farthest sea,
I would adventure for such merchandise.

JULIET. Thou know'st, the mask of night is on my face,
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek,
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night!
Fain would I dwell on form; fain, fain deny
What I have spoke! But farewell compliment!
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say--Ay;
And I will take thy word! yet, if thou swear'st,
Thou may'st prove false; at lover's perjuries,
They say, Jove laughs. Oh, gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully!
Or, if thou think'st I am too quickly won,
I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo! but else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond:
And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light!
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou overheard'st ere I was ware,
My true love's passion; therefore, pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night has so discovered.

ROMEO. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear--

JULIET. Oh! swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon
That monthly changes in her circled orb;
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
ROMEO. What shall I swear by?

JULIET. Do not swear at all;
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry,
And I'll believe thee.

ROMEO. If my true heart's love--

JULIET. Well, do not swear! Although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to-night;
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden,
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be,
Ere one can say--'It lightens.' Sweet, good-night!
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
Good-night, good-night!--as sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart, as that within my breast!

ROMEO. Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

JULIET. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?

ROMEO. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.

JULIET. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it;
And yet I would it were to give again.

ROMEO. Would'st thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?

JULIET. But to be frank, and give it thee again.
My bounty is as boundless as the sea;
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have; for both are infinite.
I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu!

NURSE. [_Within_]--Madam!

JULIET. Anon, good Nurse! Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay but a little, I will come again. [_Exit from balcony_.

ROMEO. Oh! blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,
Being in night, all this is but a dream,
Too flattering sweet to be substantial.

_Re-enter Juliet, above_.

JULIET. Three words, dear Romeo, and good-night indeed.
If that thy bent of love be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite;
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay;
And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.

NURSE. [_Within_]--Madam!

JULIET. I come anon! But, if thou mean'st not well,
I do beseech thee--

NURSE. [_Within_]--Madam!

JULIET. By and by, I come!--
To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief.
To-morrow will I send.

ROMEO. So thrive my soul--

JULIET. A thousand times good-night! [_Exit_.]

ROMEO. A thousand times the worse to want thy light.

_Re-enter Juliet_

JULIET. Hist! Romeo, hist! Oh, for a falconer's voice,
To lure this tassel-gentle back again!
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud;
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine,
With repetition of my Romeo's name.

ROMEO. It is my love that calls upon my name!
How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears!

JULIET. Romeo!

ROMEO. My dear!

JULIET. At what o'clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee?

ROMEO. At the hour of nine.

JULIET. I will not fail: 'tis twenty years till then.
I have forgot why I did call thee back.

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