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Rom. He jests at scars, that never felt a woundBut soft! what light from 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 : Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it: cast it off.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; 'tis not to me she speaks : Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do intreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres, till they return.


This Translation obtained the Porson Prize. Some alterations

have since been made.

ΡΩΜ. Ούλαϊς γελά τις τραυμάτων άπειρος ών.

τί δήτ' εκείνης θυρίδος εξέλαμψε φώς;
έως άρ' ήν τόδ', ήλιος δ' Ιουλία.
ανέλθε, καλλιφεγγες ήλιε, κτενών
φθονεραν σελήνην, ή τέτηκεν άλγεσι,
σου της γε δούλης καλλονή νικωμένη.
τί τη φθονούση λάτρις ει; τί σοι μέλει
έσθημα παρθένειον; ως μελαγχολεί,
μωραί τε νιν φορούσι· σοι δ' εκδυτέα.
δέσποιν' έμή πέφηνε, καρδίας έμής
τα φίλταθ'· ως γαρ ειδέναι τόδ' ώφελε.
φωνεί τι, φωνεί: κουδεν είφ' όμως τι μήν;
όσσων με σαίνει φθέγμα" τούτ' αμείψομαι.
άγαν ή αναιδής ειμ' έμ' ου προσεννέπει
αλλ' αστέρ' ασχολούντε καλλίστω τινε
λίσσεσθον αυτής όμματ, έστε δή πάλιν
έκνήσθον, εν τοις οίσιν αυγάζειν κύκλοις.

What if her eyes were there, they in her head ?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven
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!

Ah me!

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 Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, And sails upon the bosom of the air.

Jul. O 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.

ει δ' ήν εκεί μέν όμματ, έν δ' αυτής κάρα
άστρω μετοικισθέντε, προς παρηΐδα
μαυροίτ' άν άστρα, λαμπάς ως παρ' ήλιον,
μετάρσιός τ' οφθαλμός ουρανού δια
πέμποι σέλας τηλαυγές, ορνίθων μέλη
εφα κινών, ως σκότου πεφευγότος.
ίδ ως παρειαν εις χέρ' αγκλίνασέχει
είθ' ήν εκείνης δεξιάς χειρίς εγώ,
όπως εκείνης ηπτόμην παρηίδος.

ΙΟΥΛ. ώ μοι

ΡΩΜ. έφθέγξατ'· ώ φθέγξαιο, φαιδιμη, πάλιν

υπερθε γάρ μου τήσδ' άγαλμα νυκτός εί,
ως εύτε θνητοίς ήλθεν άγγελος θεού,
οι δ' έκπλαγέντες υπτιάζουσιν κόρας,
κάς τουπίσω κλίνουσιν ώστε προσβλέπεις
νεφελών έφιππεύοντα των βραδυστόλων,

πτεροΐσι ναυστολούντα κόλπον αιθέρος. ΙΟΥΛ. ώ Ρωμεων, τί δήτα Ρωμεών έφυς ;

πατέρα τ' αναίνου κώνομ'· ει δε μη θέλεις,
όμνυ φιλήτωρ τήσδε πιστός εμμενεϊν,
κάγώ δόμων τε και γένους εξίσταμαι.

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Fond soother of my infant tear,

Fond sharer of my infant joy, Doth not thy shade still linger here?

Am I not still thy soul's employ? And oh, as when at close of day

Our virgins climb'd the sacred mount, And harping sang their choral lay

And danced around Cassotis' fount; As then 'twas all thy wish and care

That mine should be the simplest mien, My voice and lyre the sweetest there,

My step the lightest on the green ; So now,

each line of grace to mould, Around my form thine eyes are shed, Arranging every snowy fold,

And guiding every mazy tread. And when I lead the hymning choir,

Thy spirit still unseen and free Hovers between my lip and lyre,

And weds them into harmony.

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