What if her eyes were there, they in her head? Would through the airy region stream so bright, Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek! Jul. Rom. Ah me! She speaks; Oh, speak again, bright angel! for thou art 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. εἰ δ ̓ ἦν ἐκεῖ μὲν ὄμματ', ἐν δ ̓ αὐτῆς κάρᾳ ΡΩΜ. ἐφθέγξατ ̓ ὦ φθέγξαιο, φαιδιμὴ, πάλιν· ὕπερθε γάρ μου τῆσδ ̓ ἄγαλμα νυκτὸς εἶ, ΙΟΥΛ. ὦ Ῥωμεὼν, τί δῆτα Ῥωμεὼν ἔφυς ; πατέρα τ ̓ ἀναίνου κὤνομ ̓· εἰ δὲ μὴ θέλεις, SONG, BY MOORE. Fond soother of my infant tear, Fond sharer of my infant joy, Doth not thy shade still linger here? 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 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. THE SAME TRANSLATED. O mihi quæ teneros mulcebas anxia fletus, Non umbram hic, dilecta, tuam juvat usque morari? Hoc tibi erat curæ, summa hæc et sola voluntas, Ne qua lyrâ nec voce canens me suavius illic, Ne levior molli planta volaret humo. Nunc etiam, ut veneres fingant mihi quasque decenter, Lumina formam sunt tua fusa meam, per Quemque mihi celeris passûs rectura meatum, Quemque mihi niveum compositura sinum. Et citharam medius volitans interque labellum He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one; Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading : But to those men that sought him, sweet as summer. That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. |