434 Pages, Paperback 

ISBN: 969-516-037-9

Price: Rs.345

Price: $ 10.50




Romeo and Juliet







Scene II

Capulet’s orchard.




Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,

Towards Phoebus’ lodging: such a wagoner

As Phaethon would whip you to the west,

And bring in cloudy night immediately.

Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,

That runaway’s eyes may wink and Romeo

Leap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen.

Lovers can see to do their amorous rites

By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,

It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,

Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,

And learn me how to lose a winning match,

Play’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:

Hood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks,

With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,

Think true love acted simple modesty.

Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night;

For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night

Whiter than new snow on a raven’s back.

Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow’d night,

Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love with night

And pay no worship to the garish sun.

O, I have bought the mansion of a love,

But not possess’d it, and, though I am sold,

Not yet enjoy’d: so tedious is this day

As is the night before some festival

To an impatient child that hath new robes

And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse,

And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks

But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence.

Enter Nurse, with cords

Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords

That Romeo bid thee fetch?




Ay, ay, the cords.

Throws them down




Ay me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands?


Ah, well-a-day! he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!

We are undone, lady, we are undone!

Alack the day! he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead!




Can heaven be so envious?


Romeo can,

Though heaven cannot: O Romeo, Romeo!

Who ever would have thought it? Romeo!




What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?

This torture should be roar’d in dismal hell.

Hath Romeo slain himself? say thou but ‘I’,

And that bare vowel ‘I’ shall poison more

Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice:

I am not I, if there be such an I;

Or those eyes shut, that make thee answer ‘I’.

If he be slain, say ‘I’; or if not, no:

Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.


Home | Titles | Authors | Orders | About | Contact

Book Excerpts | Ghazals