ouch, tonight, and Shakespearean rantings

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aah... my neck ache has now turned into shoulder/back ache. *yay* sweet sweet back ache is a thousand times better than neck ache! At least i can think! Go the warrior!

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If you want to do something with me tonight, and i sure hope you do cos i am bored! Then text me/call me/email me/comment on this post ANYTHING I SAY! or if you are doing something that i am permitted to also do! anything for this sad, bored loser, lol!! ha ha.

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*grin*
And for the second thing i want to attend to:
My only love sprung from my only hate!/ Too early seen unknown, and known too late!/ Prodigious birth of love it is to me,/ That i must love a loathed enemy.

But soft! What light through 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 more fair than she./
It is my lady, O it is my love;/ O that she knew she were!/ She speaks yet she says nothing. What of that?/ See how she leans her cheek upon her hand./ O that i were a glove upon that hand,/That i might touch that cheek!/
O speak again, bright angel, for thou art/ As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,/ As a winged messenger of heaven.

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/ 'Tis thy name that is my enemy:/ Thou art thy self, though not a Montague./ O be some other name! What's Montague?/ It is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face,/ nor any other part belonging to a man./ 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 thy name, which is no part of thee,/ Take all myself.

Goodnight, goodnight, parting is such sweet sorrow,/ That i shall say goodnight till it be morrow.

Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:/ It was the nightingale, and not the lark,/ That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear./ Nightly she sings on yond pom'granate tree./ Believe me love, it was the nightingale.

It was the lark, the herald of the morn;/ No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks/ Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east./ Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day/ Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops./ I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

Yond light is not daylight; i know it, I:/ It is some meteor that the sun exhaled/ To be to thee this night a torchbearer/ And light thee on thy way to Mantua./ Therefore stay yet; thou needst not to be gone.

Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death;/ I am content, so thou wilt have it so./ I'll say yon gray is not the morning's eye,/ 'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;/ Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat/ The vaulty heaven so high above our heads./ I have more care to stay than will to go:/ Come, death and welcome: Juliet wills it so./ It is not day.

It is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away!/ It is the lark that sings so out of tune/ O now be gone! More light and light it grows.

More light and light, more dark and dark our woes.

Aah.... *soft sigh* pleasurable Shakespeare to warm my cold day!