1 Ay madam, from the reach of these my hands.
2 Here comes your father, tell him so yourself, And see how he will take it at your hands.
3 O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do: They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
4 When good manners shall lie all in one or two men's hands, and they unwash'd too, 'tis a foul thing.'
5 Do thou but close our hands with holy words, Then love-devouring death do what he dare, It is enough I may but call her mine.
6 So please you, let me now be left alone, And let the nurse this night sit up with you, For I am sure you have your hands full all In this so sudden business.
7 Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
8 Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
9 God join'd my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands; And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo's seal'd, Shall be the label to another deed, Or my true heart with treacherous revolt Turn to another, this shall slay them both.
10 Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word, By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets, And made Verona's ancient citizens Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments, To wield old partisans, in hands as old, Canker'd with peace, to part your canker'd hate.