My Speech

In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face.
Mercutio's kinsmen, noble County Paris!
What said my man when my betossed soul
did not attend him as we rode? I think
He said that Paris should have married Juliet.
Said he not so, or did I dream it so?
Or am I mad, to hear him speak of Juliet,
to think it was so? O, give me thy hand,
one writ with my in sour misfortune's book!
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave.
A grave? O, a lanthorn, slaughtred youth,
for there lies Juliet,
and her presence makes this vault a feasting presence
full of light.
Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interred.
O, how oft have men been at the point of death
when they have been merry! Which their keeper's
call a lightning before death! O, how can I call this
a lightning? O, my love, my wife!
Death, that hath sucked the honey off thy breath
Hath had no power yet over thy beauty.
Thou art not conquered. Beauty's ensign yet
is still crimson in thy lips and in the cheeks,
and death's pale flag is not advanced there.