Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear,
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops—
Jul. O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

Oz laid down the book and looked at Willow. “It won’t, you know,” he said quietly. “I can’t imagine not loving you. My Willow.”

The change hit him fast and hard and he screamed out the incantations to force it back until speech left him.

The book was shredded when he woke and the glass on Willow’s photograph was cracked.

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