[II, ii, 33–49] Unaware that she is not alone, Juliet speaks in what should be soliloquy, though her speech is heard by the very man to whom it is nominally addressed:

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.

ROMEO (aside)

Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

JULIET

’Tis but thy name that is my enemy.

Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.

What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot

Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part

Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.

So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,

Retain that dear perfection which he owes

Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name;

And for that name, which is no part of thee,

Take all myself.

[III, ii, 1–31] Night cannot come soon enough for Juliet, as she awaits the arrival of her lover, urging on the horses that draw the sun’s chariot across the sky:

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,

Towards Phoebus’ lodging! Such a waggoner

As Phaëton 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 untalked 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,

Played for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.

Hood my unmanned 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 upon a raven’s back.

Come, gentle night. Come, loving, black-browed night.

Give me my Romeo. And when I 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 possessed it; and though I am sold,

Not yet enjoyed. 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.

Richard II

[V, v, 1–66] No longer a king but a prisoner, Richard struggles to find an adequate metaphor for his transformation – but he’ll have to ‘hammer’ language to match the violent rending of his own destiny:

I have been studying how I may compare

This prison where I live unto the world;

And, for because the world is populous,