Friar Laurence hath agreed to perform the blessed rites in which I shall take sweet Juliet for my wife.
True, the cleric was at first perplexed by my glad demeanor when I joined him so early this morn in his herb garden. He could see I’d had no sleep, but I told him I had no need of it.
“Wast thou with Rosaline?” he asked.
I assured him I had all but forgotten that name and the despair it inflicted. And I confessed to my confessor that I was now in love in earnest, a love whose very definition is the one who inspires it: Juliet. My adored adversary.
Aye, the friar did challenge my claim. He reminded me ’twas only one sunrise past that I wept for another.
But he is old and cannot possibly grasp the depth of love so truthful. O, how can he understand? For his youth is a memory long abandoned, but I am in the thick of mine, and youth is a quick, bright thing. This love, I believe, is sanctioned by the stars.
What can it matter that I know nothing of her, other than that she loves me too? I may not know her favorite flower, her favorite ballad, or the day and month of her birth, or whether or not she can read. We have not seen the snow together. We have not even shared the rain. But one hot night upon her balcony has proved enough for both of us.
The friar chided me, and warned me. But, praise the angels, he did at last consent to deliver the sacrament when it occurred to him that our happy alliance might be the only salve sufficient to soothe Verona’s wounds.
Before the sun has set this day, a secret wife fair Juliet shall be
With whispered vows I shall become husband to my beloved enemy.