Was there ever a time when lovers sat outside of windows and played lyres,
Or were those only stories dreamed up by romantic minds-
Too daring by half
But still not nearly daring enough to do the things they sang about?
If I threw pebbles at your windowpane, you would tell me to go back to sleep.
Darling, what is that? How do you love someone, nowadays?
With roses and chocolate,
Or is even that too much, in modern times?
What is this casualness, a...
Casualty?
I feel.
And I would stand outside your gate all night and sing to you,
Had you a gate and had I a voice.
But this world is... different than I expected.
And I don't know how to love you, it's true.
"Make me a willow cabin at your gate
And call upon my soul within the house.
Write loyal cantons of contemned love
And sing them loud, even in the dead of night.
Halloo your name to the reverberate hills
And make the babbling gossip of the air cry out, Olivia!"
-Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, Act I, Scene 5