Act I, Sc i
There is a woman who doth possess my heart of sickly sweet depression. O, Rosaline, how you Forsaken I, who worship where thou steps. Is it wrong for I, a lowly man, to love thee. My Cousins, whether blood or not, have tried to set my spirits high, but neither have prevailed. Has thee made it a quest to help or annoy me? It doth only annoy, but shall not blame, no, not blame. Thee only attempt to help.
Rosaline, fair Rosaline, thee forsaken me so? Chastity? HA! A vow of such a mess is unruly. Perfection should be passed, not cower in thy loins. Thee hair, thou eyes, only to which will stay? Horrible! Madness! Sweet pain of luxury!
Benvolio, doth thee not feel love? Thee made sweet agony, make thee suffer and told I to look away. Doth my honest cousin curse beauty to be damned? Rosaline is perfection, not population like some goose!
Perfection is perfection, population doth not stand out. How Benvolio makes me churn, telling I to look away. One should not order the higher sweet delays.
Benvolio looks now, confused but conversed. Determined to take me out towards the centre square. Mercutio is waiting, doth they not see I for I or me for myself?
