Act II, Scene i
Dear Diary,
Oh, how can but one day bring such joy and such pain? Early this evening my mother and my nurse spoke with me briefly on the subject of marriage. Mother wanted me to observe a certain gentleman, Paris, at the party that was being held at our house this night, as he is interested in marrying me in a few years, once I am of suitable age. I looked forward to the party, as it is not often that one's mother grants permission, (much less requests) that one observes a handsome gentleman in such a manner. But while my intentions were to, as my mother requested, observe Paris this night, I must say that I didn't fulfill this duty at all. I myself was occupied, talking with another fine gentleman. While Paris was one of many bright stars that speckled the dance floor this night, he paled in comparison to Romeo, the brightest of the room. Why, if Paris is a star, then Romeo must be a sun! I must admit that my cheeks appear a bit pinker than usual, as those of any who have been recently sun-kissed. But alas! "My only love sprung from my only hate!" This Romeo with whom I am so enamored is none other than a Montague! It was in but one moment that I had seen our future together played out in my mind, and with the word, my dear nurse imparted to me, "Montague", as my Romeo left the feast, these dreams of all future joy shattered, and the shards of them still sting my eyes, one by one departing me with my every dropping tear. My love, a Montague? Never could it be. If ever I wished reality a dream it is now. May I wake to a life in which the Montagues are in good favour with my family, and my Romeo with me. Oh, but I am such a fool! To assume that after talking but once, he loves me! Why it is a good thing that this diary is only to be read by me, for anyone whose eyes should come across this page would certainly mark me insane! I must try to make myself forget this night, forget Romeo. But oh, what joy if Romeo hast not forgotten me! Any hope there is surely cannot withstand the violent quarrel of the families. Dost he know me to be a Capulet? If not, perhaps there is more hope indeed. But I should forget hope, so if hope proves true, it is a wonderful surprise, and more appreciated than something expected, and I should forget hope so that if hope proves false, I am not disappointed in it.
Juliet
Dear Diary,
Oh, how can but one day bring such joy and such pain? Early this evening my mother and my nurse spoke with me briefly on the subject of marriage. Mother wanted me to observe a certain gentleman, Paris, at the party that was being held at our house this night, as he is interested in marrying me in a few years, once I am of suitable age. I looked forward to the party, as it is not often that one's mother grants permission, (much less requests) that one observes a handsome gentleman in such a manner. But while my intentions were to, as my mother requested, observe Paris this night, I must say that I didn't fulfill this duty at all. I myself was occupied, talking with another fine gentleman. While Paris was one of many bright stars that speckled the dance floor this night, he paled in comparison to Romeo, the brightest of the room. Why, if Paris is a star, then Romeo must be a sun! I must admit that my cheeks appear a bit pinker than usual, as those of any who have been recently sun-kissed. But alas! "My only love sprung from my only hate!" This Romeo with whom I am so enamored is none other than a Montague! It was in but one moment that I had seen our future together played out in my mind, and with the word, my dear nurse imparted to me, "Montague", as my Romeo left the feast, these dreams of all future joy shattered, and the shards of them still sting my eyes, one by one departing me with my every dropping tear. My love, a Montague? Never could it be. If ever I wished reality a dream it is now. May I wake to a life in which the Montagues are in good favour with my family, and my Romeo with me. Oh, but I am such a fool! To assume that after talking but once, he loves me! Why it is a good thing that this diary is only to be read by me, for anyone whose eyes should come across this page would certainly mark me insane! I must try to make myself forget this night, forget Romeo. But oh, what joy if Romeo hast not forgotten me! Any hope there is surely cannot withstand the violent quarrel of the families. Dost he know me to be a Capulet? If not, perhaps there is more hope indeed. But I should forget hope, so if hope proves true, it is a wonderful surprise, and more appreciated than something expected, and I should forget hope so that if hope proves false, I am not disappointed in it.
Juliet