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       ESCALUS, Prince of Verona
       PARIS, a young Count, kinsman to the Prince
       MONTAGUE, head of house at variance with Capulet
       CAPULET, head of house at variance with Montague
       An old Man, of the Capulet family
       ROMEO, son to Montague
       TYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet
       MERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince and friend to Romeo
       BENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo
       FRIAR LAURENCE, Franciscan
       FRIAR JOHN, Franciscan
       BALTHASAR, servant to Romeo
       ABRAM, servant to Montague
       SAMPSON, servant to Capulet
       GREGORY, servant to Capulet
       PETER, servant to Juliet's nurse
       An Apothecary
       Three Musicians
       An Officer
       LADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague
       LADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet
       JULIET, daughter to Capulet
       Nurse to Juliet
       Citizens of Verona,
       Gentlemen and Gentlewomen of both houses,
       Maskers, Torchbearers, Pages, Guards,
       Watchmen, Servants, and Attendants
   SCENE: Verona; Mantua.
       Enter CHORUS.
           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.
       From forth
            the fatal loins
                 of these two foes
         A pair of star-crossed lovers
              take their life;
            Whose misadventured
                 piteous overthrows
          Do with their death
             bury their parents' strife.
       The fearful passage
            of their death-marked love,
          And the continuance
               of their parents' rage,
            but their children's end,
                naught and could remove,
          Is now
             the two hours' traffic
                 of our stage;
           The which
               if you with patient ears attend,
         What here shall miss,
             our toil
                 shall strive to mend.
       Enter SAMPSON and GREGORY,
            of the house of Capulet,
          with swords
               and bucklers (shields).
                on my word,
             we'll not carry coals.
              for then
                  we should be colliers.
           I mean,
                and we be in choler,
              we'll draw.
           Ay, while you live,
               draw your neck
                   out of collar.
           I strike quickly,
               being moved.
           But thou art not
               quickly moved to strike.
           A dog of the house
               of Montague moves me.
           A dog of that house
              shall move me to stand.
       I will take the wall
            of any man
               or maid of Montague's.
           That shows thee
                a weak slave;
              for the weakest
                  goes to the wall.
           'Tis true;
                and therefore women,
                     being the weaker vessels,
                   are ever thrust
                        to the wall.
           I will push Montague's men
                from the wall
              and thrust his maids
                   to the wall.
           The quarrel
               is between our masters
                   and us their men.
            'Tis all one.
       I will show myself
           a tyrant.
       When I have fought
             with the men,
           I will be civil
                with the maids
                -- I will cut off their heads.
           The heads of the maids?
              the heads of the maids
                  or their maidenheads.
       Take it in what sense
            thou wilt.
           They must take it
                in sense that feel it.
           Me they shall feel
               while I am able to stand;
             and 'tis known
                  I am a pretty piece of flesh.
           'Tis well
                 thou art not fish;
               if thou hadst,
                    thou hadst been Poor John.
       Draw thy tool!
       Here comes two
           of the house of Montagues.
       [Enter two other servingmen,
            ABRAM and BALTHASAR.]
           My naked weapon is out.
       I will back thee.
              Turn thy back and run?
           Fear me not.
           No, marry.
       I fear thee!
           Let us take the law
                 of our sides;
              let them begin.
           I will frown
                as I pass by,
              and let them take it
                   as they list.
           Nay, as they dare.
       I will bite my thumb
             at them,
           which is disgrace to them
                if they bear it.
           Do you
               bite your thumb at us, sir?
           I do bite my thumb, sir.
           Do you
               bite your thumb at us, sir?
          (aside to GREGORY).
              Is the law of our side
                 if I say ay?
          (aside to SAMPSON).
           No, sir,
               I do not
                   bite my thumb at you, sir;
             but I bite my thumb, sir.
           Do you quarrel, sir?
           Quarrel, sir?
       No, sir.
           But if you do, sir,
               I am for you.
       I serve
          as good a man as you.
           No better.
           Well, sir.
       [Enter BENVOLIO.]
           Say "better."
       Here comes one
           of my master's kinsmen.
              better, sir.
           You lie.
              if you be men.
             thy swashing blow.
       [They fight.]
           Part, fools!
       Put up your swords.
       You know not
            what you do.
       [Enter TYBALT.]
                art thou drawn
              among these heartless hinds?
       Turn thee,
             look upon thy death.
           I do but
              keep the peace.
       Put up thy sword,
          Or manage it
              to part these men with me.
           What, drawn,
               and talk of peace?
       I hate the word
          As I hate hell,
               all Montagues,
             and thee.
       Have at thee,
       [They fight.]
       [Enter an OFFICER,
             and three or four CITIZENS
           with clubs,
                  and partisans,
                or spears.]
              and partisans!
       Beat them down!
       Down with the Capulets!
       Down with the Montagues!
       [Enter old CAPULET,
             in his gown,
           and his wife,
                LADY CAPULET.]
           What noise is this?
       Give me my long sword, ho!
       Lady Capulet.
           A crutch,
               a crutch!
       Why call you
            for a sword?
           My sword, I say!
       Old Montague is come
          And flourishes his blade
              in spite of me.
       [Enter old MONTAGUE
            and his wife,
               LADY MONTAGUE.]
           Thou villain Capulet!
             -- Hold me not;
                    let me go.
       Lady Montague.
           Thou shalt not
                stir one foot
                   to seek a foe.
       [Enter PRINCE ESCALUS,
            with his TRAIN.]
           Rebellious subjects,
               enemies to peace,
            of this neighbor-stainèd steel
            -- Will they not hear?
       What, ho!
       You men,
            you beasts,
          That quench the fire
               of your pernicious rage
            With purple fountains
                  issuing from your veins!
       On pain of torture,
            from those bloody hands
          Throw your mistempered weapons
                to the ground
             And hear the sentence
                   of your movèd prince.
       Three civil brawls,
            bred of an airy word
          By thee,
              old Capulet,
                   and Montague,
        Have thrice disturbed
             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,
              Cankered with peace,
           to part your cankered hate.
       If ever you
            disturb our streets again,
          Your lives
               shall pay the forfeit
                   of the peace.
       For this time
           all the rest
              depart away.
               shall go along with me;
                 come you this afternoon,
              To know our farther pleasure
                   in this case,
          To old Freetown,
              our common judgment place.
       Once more,
          on pain of death,
              all men depart.
       [Exeunt all but MONTAGUE,
          LADY MONTAGUE,
              and BENVOLIO.]
           Who set this ancient quarrel
               new abroach?
        were you by
            when it began?
           Here were the servants
                of your adversary
         And yours,
            close fighting
                 ere I did approach.
       I drew
           to part them.
       In the instant came
            The fiery Tybalt,
                 with his sword prepared,
              as he breathed defiance
                  to my ears,
           He swung about his head
                and cut the winds,
             nothing hurt withal,
                 hissed him in scorn.
       While we were
                thrusts and blows,
         Came more and more,
             and fought
                on part and part,
           Till the prince came,
              who parted either part.
       Lady Montague.
           O, where is Romeo?
       Saw you him today?
       Right glad I am
           he was not
               at this fray.
         an hour before
             the worshiped sun
                 Peered forth
                      the golden window
                   of the East,
           A troubled mind drave me
                to walk abroad;
                 the grove of sycamore
               That westward rooteth
                     from this city side,
          So early walking
              did I see your son.
       Towards him I made,
            but he was ware of me
          And stole
              into the covert
                  of the wood.
              his affections by my own,
            Which then most sought
                where most
                    might not be found,
         Being one too many
             by my weary self,
           Pursued my humor
                not pursuing his,
              And gladly shunned
                  who gladly fled from me.
           Many a morning hath
                he there been seen,
          With tears
                the fresh morning's dew,
          Adding to clouds
              more clouds
                  with his deep sighs;
           But all so soon
                as the all-cheering sun
          Should in the farthest East
              begin to draw
                  The shady curtains
                       from Aurora's bed,
            Away from light
                steals home my heavy son
         And private
             in his chamber pens himself,
           Shuts up his windows,
               locks fair daylight out,
        And makes himself
            an artificial night.
       Black and portentous
            must this humor prove
          Unless good counsel
               may the cause remove.
           My noble uncle,
               do you know the cause?
           I neither know it
               nor can learn of him.
           Have you importuned him
               by any means?
           Both by myself
                and many other friends;
         But he,
              his own affections' counselor,
            Is to himself
              -- I will not say how true --
               But to himself
                    so secret and so close,
          So far from sounding
              and discovery,
            As is the bud bit
                 with an envious worm
         Ere he
            can spread his sweet leaves
                to the air
          Or dedicate his beauty
              to the sun.
       Could we but learn
            from whence
                his sorrows grow,
         We would
             as willingly give cure
                 as know.
       [Enter ROMEO.]
              where he comes.
       So please you step aside;
           I'll know his grievance,
               or be much denied.
           I would
               thou wert
                    so happy by the stay
                  To hear true shrift.
             let's away.
       [Exeunt MONTAGUE
            and LADY MONTAGUE.]
           Good morrow, cousin.
           Is the day so young?
           But new struck nine.
           Ay me!
       Sad hours seem long.
       Was that my father
            that went hence so fast?
           It was.
       What sadness
           lengthens Romeo's hours?
           Not having that
               which having
                   makes them short.
           In love?
           Of love?
           Out of her favor
               where I am in love.
           Alas that love,
                so gentle in his view,
             Should be so tyrannous
                   and rough in proof!
           Alas that love,
               whose view
                    is muffled still,
          Should without eyes
             see pathways to his will!
       Where shall we dine?
       O me!
       What fray was here?
       Yet tell me not,
           for I have heard it all.
       Here's much
            to do with hate,
          but more with love.
       Why then,
          O brawling love,
        O loving hate,
            O anything,
               of nothing first created!
       O heavy lightness,
            serious vanity,
          Misshapen chaos
               of well-seeming forms,
        Feather of lead,
            bright smoke,
          cold fire,
               sick health,
             Still-waking sleep,
                  that is not what it is!
       This love feel I,
          that feel
              no love in this.
       Dost thou not laugh?
           No, coz,
               I rather weep.
           Good heart, at what?
           At thy good heart's
               such is love's transgression.
       Griefs of mine own
            lie heavy in my breast,
          Which thou wilt propagate,
               to have it prest
                   With more of thine.
       This love
            that thou hast shown
          Doth add more grief
               to too much of mine own.
       Love is a smoke
            made with
                the fume of sighs;
        Being purged,
            a fire sparkling
                 in lovers' eyes;
          Being vexed,
              a sea nourished
                  with loving tears.
       What is it else?
       A madness most discreet,
            A choking gall,
          and a preserving sweet.
       Farewell, my coz.
       I will go along.
       And if you leave me so,
          you do me wrong.
       I have lost myself;
            I am not here;
          This is not Romeo,
               he's some other where.
           Tell me in sadness,
                who is that you love?
               shall I groan
                   and tell thee?
       Why, no;
           But sadly tell me who.
           Bid a sick man in sadness
               make his will.
          word ill urged
              to one that is so ill!
       In sadness,
              I do love a woman.
           I aimed so near
               when I supposed you loved.
           A right good markman.
       And she's fair I love.
           A right fair mark,
                fair coz,
             is soonest hit.
              in that hit you miss.
       She'll not be hit
          With Cupid's arrow.
       She hath Dian's wit,
              in strong proof
                  of chastity well armed,
          From Love's weak childish bow
              she lives uncharmed.
       She will not
            stay the siege
                of loving terms,
         Nor bide th' encounter
              of assailing eyes,
        Nor ope her lap
            to saint-seducing gold.
            she is rich in beauty;
          only poor That,
               when she dies,
             with beauty
                  dies her store.
           Then she hath sworn
                that she
                   will still live chaste?
           She hath,
               and in that sparing
                    makes huge waste;
         For beauty,
              starved with her severity,
            Cuts beauty off
                 from all posterity.
       She is too fair,
            too wise,
                wisely too fair,
          To merit bliss
              by making me despair.
       She hath forsworn to love,
            and in that vow
          Do I live dead
               that live to tell it now.
           Be ruled by me;
              forget to think of her.
           O, teach me
               how I should forget
                   to think!
           By giving liberty
              unto thine eyes.
       Examine other beauties.
           'Tis the way
               To call hers,
                   in question more.
       These happy masks
            that kiss fair ladies' brows,
          Being black,
               put us in mind
                   they hide the fair.
       He that is strucken blind
           cannot forget
               The precious treasure
                   of his eyesight lost.
       Show me a mistress
            that is passing fair:
          What doth her beauty serve
               but as a note
             Where I may read
                  who passed that passing fair?
       Thou canst not teach me
            to forget.
           I'll pay that doctrine,
               or else die in debt.
       Enter CAPULET,
            COUNT PARIS,
          and the clown,
               his SERVANT.
           But Montague
               is bound as well as I,
                    In penalty alike;
         and 'tis not hard,
             I think,
           For men so old as we
                to keep the peace.
           But saying o'er
                what I have said before:
              My child
                  is yet a stranger
                      in the world,
          She hath not seen
              the change
                  of fourteen years;
        Let two more summers
             wither in their pride
           Ere we may think her ripe
                to be a bride.
           Younger than she
               are happy mothers made.
           And too soon marred
               are those so early made.
       Earth hath swallowed
            all my hopes but she;
          She is the hopeful lady
               of my earth.
       But woo her,
            gentle Paris,
                 get her heart;
         My will to her consent
             is but a part.
       And she agreed,
          within her scope of choice
               Lies my consent
                   and fair according voice.
       This night I hold
           an old accustomed feast.
           I have invited
                many a guest,
             Such as I love;
        and you among the store,
           One more,
                most welcome,
              makes my number more.
       At my poor house
           look to behold this night
                Earth-treading stars
              that make dark heaven light.
       Such comfort
            as do lusty young men feel
          When well-appareled April
               on the heel
                   Of limping winter treads,
           even such delight
                Among fresh fennel buds
              shall you this night
                   Inherit at my house.
       Hear all,
            all see,
          And like her most
               whose merit most shall be;
             on more view of many,
                being one,
              May stand in number,
                   though in reck'ning none.
          go with me.
       [To SERVANT,
          giving him a paper.]
        trudge about
             Through fair Verona;
           find those persons out
               Whose names
                    are written there,
          and to them say
              My house and welcome
                  on their pleasure stay.
       [Exit with PARIS.]
           Find them out
              whose names
                  are written here?
       It is written
           that the shoemaker
               should meddle
                     with his yard
                  and the tailor with his last,
         the fisher
              with his pencil
            and the painter
                 with his nets;
         but I am sent
             to find those persons
                whose names are here writ,
          and can never find
             what names the writing person
                 hath here writ.
       I must to the learned.
       In good time!
       [Enter BENVOLIO and ROMEO.]
           Tut, man,
         one fire burns out
              another's burning;
           One pain is less'ned
                 by another's anguish;
       Turn giddy,
          and be holp
               by backward turning;
            One desperate grief cures
                 with another's languish.
       Take thou
            some new infection
                to thy eye,
         And the rank poison
             of the old will die.
           Your plantain leaf
               is excellent for that.
           For what,
              I pray thee?
           For your broken shin.
           Why, Romeo,
               art thou mad?
           Not mad,
              but bound
                  more than a madman is;
         Shut up in prison,
              kept without my food,
           Whipped and tormented
               and -- God-den,
                  good fellow.
           God gi' go-den.
       I pray, sir,
          can you read?
              mine own fortune
                  in my misery.
           Perhaps you
              have learned it
                 without book.
           I pray,
         can you read
             anything you see?
              if I know the letters
                 and the language.
           Ye say honestly.
       Rest you merry.
           Stay, fellow;
              I can read.
       [He reads the letter.]
       "Signior Martino
             and his wife and daughters;
           County Anselm
                and his beauteous sisters;
         The lady widow of Vitruvio;
              Signior Placentio
                 and his lovely nieces;
                and his brother Valentine;
          Mine uncle Capulet,
              his wife and daughters;
        My fair niece Rosaline;
          Signior Valentio
              and his cousin Tybalt;
                   Lucio and the lively Helena."
       A fair assembly.
       Whither should they come?
              To supper?
           To our house.
           Whose house?
           My master's.
               I should have
                   asked you that before.
           Now I'll tell you
               without asking.
       My master
            is the great rich Capulet;
          and if you be not
               of the house of Montagues,
        I pray
            come and crush
                a cup of wine.
       Rest you merry.
           At this same ancient feast
                of Capulet's
             Sups the fair Rosaline
                   whom thou so loves;
          With all
              the admirèd beauties
                  of Verona.
       Go thither,
            and with unattainted eye
         Compare her face with some
               that I shall show,
             And I will make thee
                 think thy swan a crow.
           When the devout religion
                 of mine eye
              Maintains such falsehood,
        then turn tears to fires;
           And these,
             often drowned,
                 could never die,
          Transparent heretics,
              be burnt for liars!
       One fairer
            than my love?
       The all-seeing sun
          Ne'er saw her match
            since first the world begun.
           Tut! you saw her fair,
                none else being by,
             Herself poised
                   with herself in either eye;
        But in that
            crystal scales
          let there be weighed
              Your lady's love
                   against some other maid
             That I will show you
                 shining at this feast,
          And she
             shall scant show well
                  that now seems best.
           I'll go along,
              no such sight
                  to be shown,
          But to rejoice
              in splendor of mine own.
       Enter Capulet's wife,
          LADY CAPULET,
               and NURSE.
               by my maidenhead
                   at twelve year old,
              I bade her come.
       What, lamb!
       What, ladybird!
       God forbid,
          where's this girl?
       What, Juliet!
       [Enter JULIET.]
           How now?
       Who calls?
           Your mother.
               I am here.
       What is your will?
       Lady Capulet.
           This is the matter.
               give leave awhile;
            We must talk in secret.
          come back again.
       I have rememb'red me;
           thou's hear our counsel.
       Thou knowest
            my daughter's
                 of a pretty age.
               I can tell her age
                   unto an hour.
       Lady Capulet.
           She's not fourteen.
           I'll lay fourteen of my teeth
            -- And yet,
                   to my teen
                        be it spoken,
                  I have but four --
             She's not fourteen.
       How long is it now
          To Lammastide?
       Lady Capulet.
           A fortnight and odd days.
           Even or odd,
               of all days in the year,
         Come Lammas Eve at night
             shall she be fourteen.
       Susan and she
           (God rest
               all Christian souls!)
         Were of an age.
          Susan is with God;
              She was too good for me.
            as I said,
         On Lammas Eve at night
              shall she be fourteen;
            That shall she, marry;
                 I remember it well.
       'Tis since the earthquake
            now eleven years;
         And she was weaned
             (I never shall forget it),
           Of all the days
                of the year,
                    upon that day;
            For I had then
                laid wormwood
                    to my dug,
              Sitting in the sun
                 under the dovehouse wall.
       My lord and you
           were then at Mantua.
          I do bear a brain.
       But, as I said,
          When it
              did taste the wormwood
                  on the nipple Of my dug
             and felt it bitter,
          pretty fool,
        To see it tetchy
            and fall out with the dug!
            quoth the dovehouse!
          'Twas no need,
               I trow,
                   To bid me trudge.
       And since that time
            it is eleven years,
          For then she
              could stand high-lone;
                 by th'rood,
           She could have run
              and waddled all about;
        For even the day before,
            she broke her brow;
         And then my husband
              (God be with his soul!
                   'A was a merry man)
            took up the child.
       "Yea," quoth he,
           "dost thou fall
                upon thy face?
       Thou wilt fall backward
            when thou hast more wit;
                 Wilt thou not, Jule?"
                 by my holidam,
              The pretty wretch
                   left crying
                       and said, "Ay."
       To see now
           how a jest
               shall come about!
       I warrant,
           and I should live
                a thousand years,
              I never should forget it.
       "Wilt thou not, Jule?"
            quoth he,
              pretty fool,
            it stinted and said, "Ay."
       Lady Capulet.
           Enough of this.
       I pray thee
           hold thy peace.
           Yes, madam.
       Yet I cannot choose
            but laugh
          To think
              it should leave crying
                   and say, "Ay."
       And yet,
            I warrant,
          it had upon its brow
              A bump as big as
                  a young cock'rel's stone;
          A perilous knock;
              and it cried bitterly.
           quoth my husband,
              "fall'st upon thy face?
       Thou wilt fall backward
            when thou comest to age,
          Wilt thou not, Jule?"
       It stinted
            and said, "Ay."
           And stint thou too,
                I pray thee, nurse,
              say I.
               I have done.
       God mark thee
           to his grace!
       Thou wast
          the prettiest babe
             that e'er I nursed.
       And I might live
           to see thee
                married once,
             I have my wish.
       Lady Capulet.
         that "marry"
             is the very theme
                 I came to talk of.
       Tell me,
          daughter Juliet,
        How stands your disposition
             to be married?
           It is an honor
               that I dream not of.
           An honor?
       Were not I
            thine only nurse,
          I would say
               thou hadst sucked wisdom
                   from thy teat.
       Lady Capulet.
              I think of marriage now.
       Younger than you,
            Here in Verona,
          ladies of esteem,
              Are made already mothers.
       By my count,
          I was your mother
               much upon these years
            That you are now a maid.
       Thus then in brief:
           The valiant Paris
                seeks you for his love.
           A man,
              young lady!
          such a man
              As all the world.
             he's a man of wax.
       Lady Capulet.
           Verona's summer
                hath not such a flower.
           Nay, he's a flower,
              in faith
             -- a very flower.
       Lady Capulet.
           What say you?
       Can you love
           the gentleman?
       This night
           you shall behold him
               at our feast.
       Read o'er the volume
            of young Paris' face,
          And find delight writ there
                with beauty's pen;
             every married lineament,
           And see how one another
                lends content;
        And what obscured
             in this fair volume lies
           Find written
               in the margent of his eyes.
       This precious book of love,
            this unbound lover,
          To beautify him
               only lacks a cover.
       The fish
            lives in the sea,
                and 'tis much pride
         For fair
            without the fair
                within to hide.
       That book
            in many's eyes
                doth share the glory,
         That in gold clasps
              locks in the golden story;
           So shall you share
                all that he doth possess,
         By having him,
             making yourself no less.
           No less?
       Nay, bigger!
       Women grow by men.
       Lady Capulet.
           Speak briefly,
               can you like of Paris' love?
           I'll look to like,
               if looking liking move;
         But no more deep
              will I endart mine eye
            Than your consent
                 gives strength
                     to make it fly.
       [Enter SERVINGMAN.]
                the guests are come,
              supper served up,
          you called,
        my young lady asked for,
             the nurse
                 cursed in the pantry,
           and everything in extremity.
       I must hence to wait.
       I beseech
           you follow straight.
       Lady Capulet.
           We follow thee.
          the county stays.
           Go, girl,
               seek happy nights
                   to happy days.
       Enter ROMEO,
               with five or six
                    other MASKERS;
           The date is out
               of such prolixity.
       We'll have no Cupid
            hoodwinked with a scarf,
          Bearing a Tartar's
               painted bow of lath,
        Scaring the ladies
             like a crowkeeper;
           Nor no without-book prologue,
                faintly spoke
                     After the prompter,
                   for our entrance;
           let them measure us
                by what they will,
          We'll measure them
               a measure
                    and be gone.
           Give me a torch.
       I am not
           for this ambling.
       Being but heavy,
          I will bear the light.
           Nay, gentle Romeo,
               we must have you dance.
           Not I,
              believe me.
       You have dancing shoes
            With nimble soles;
          I have a soul of lead
               So stakes me
                    to the ground
                  I cannot move.
           You are a lover.
       Borrow Cupid's wings
          And soar with them
            above a common bound.
           I am too sore enpiercèd
                 with his shaft
              To soar with his light feathers;
        and so bound
           I cannot bound a pitch
                above dull woe.
       Under love's heavy burden
            do I sink.
           And, to sink in it,
                should you burden love
          -- Too great oppression
                   for a tender thing.
           Is love a tender thing?
       It is too rough,
           Too rude,
         too boist'rous,
             and it pricks like thorn.
           If love be rough with you,
                be rough with love;
         Prick love
              for pricking,
            and you beat love down.
       Give me a case
           to put my visage in.
       A visor for a visor!
       What care I
          What curious eye
              doth quote deformities?
       Here are the beetle brows
           shall blush for me.
                knock and enter;
         and no sooner in
             But every man
                 betake him to his legs.
           A torch for me!
       Let wantons light of heart
          Tickle the senseless rushes
               with their heels;
        For I am proverbed
             with a grandsire phrase,
           I'll be a candleholder
                and look on;
        The game
             was ne'er so fair,
                  and I am done.
       Dun's the mouse,
          the constable's own word!
       If thou art Dun,
          we'll draw thee
              from the mire
                  Of this sir-reverence love,
          wherein thou stickest
              Upon to the ears.
          we burn daylight, ho!
           Nay, that's not so.
           I mean, sir,
         in delay
             We waste our lights
                  in vain,
           like lights by day.
       Take our good meaning,
            for our judgment sits
          Five times in that
               ere once
                   in our five wits.
           And we mean well
               in going
                   to this masque,
         But 'tis no wit to go.
              may one ask?
           I dreamt a dream
           And so did I.
               what was yours?
           That dreamers often lie.
           In bed asleep,
         while they
              do dream things true.
           O, then I see
              Queen Mab
                   hath been with you.
       She is the fairies' midwife,
            and she comes
          In shape no bigger
              than an agate stone
                  On the forefinger
                      of an alderman,
           Drawn with a team
                of little atomies
              Over men's noses
                  as they lie asleep;
        Her wagon spokes
             made of long spinners' legs,
          The cover,
                of the wings of grasshoppers;
             Her traces,
                   of the smallest spider web;
           Her collars,
               of the moonshine's wat'ry beams;
        Her whip,
            of cricket's bone;
          the lash,
               of film;
             Her wagoner,
                   a small gray-coated gnat,
                Not half so big
                     as a round little worm
                   Pricked from the lazy finger
                        of a maid;
           Her chariot
               is an empty hazelnut,
                  Made by the joiner squirrel
                      or old grub,
             Time out o' mind
               the fairies' coachmakers.
       And in this state
          she gallops night by night
              Through lovers' brains,
        and then
            they dream of love;
          On courtiers' knees,
               that dream on curtsies straight;
            O'er lawyers' fingers,
                  who straight dream on fees;
          O'er ladies' lips,
               who straight on kisses dream,
             Which oft the angry Mab
                  with blisters plagues,
           Because their breaths
               with sweetmeats tainted are.
       Sometime she gallops
            o'er a courtier's nose,
          And then dreams he
               of smelling out a suit;
        And sometime comes she
            with a tithe pig's tail
                Tickling a parson's nose
                     as 'a lies asleep,
             Then dreams he
                of another benefice.
       Sometime she driveth
            o'er a soldier's neck,
          And then dreams he
                of cutting foreign throats,
             Of breaches,
            Spanish blades,
               Of healths five fathom deep;
          and then anon
             Drums in his ear,
        at which
            he starts and wakes,
         And being thus frighted,
              swears a prayer or two
                   And sleeps again.
       This is that very Mab
          That plaits the manes
               of horses in the night
             And bakes the elflocks
                 in foul sluttish hairs,
          Which once untangled
              much misfortune bodes.
       This is the hag,
            when maids
                lie on their backs,
        That presses them
            and learns them
                first to bear,
          Making them women
              of good carriage.
       This is she--
       Thou talk'st of nothing.
          I talk of dreams;
              Which are the children
                  of an idle brain,
            Begot of nothing
               but vain fantasy;
          Which is
              as thin of substance
                 as the air,
        And more inconstant
             than the wind,
          who woos Even now
               the frozen bosom
                   of the North
              being angered,
            puffs away from thence,
         Turning his side
             to the dewdropping South.
           This wind you talk of
                blows us from ourselves,
          Supper is done,
             and we
                shall come too late.
           I fear,
               too early;
         for my mind misgives
            Some consequence
                 yet hanging in the stars
              Shall bitterly begin
                   his fearful date
                       With this night's revels
                and expire the term
                    Of a despisèd life,
            closed in my breast,
                By some vile forfeit
                    of untimely death.
       But he that hath
            the steerage of my course
          Direct my sail!
       On, lusty gentlemen!
           Strike, drum.
       [They march about the stage
             and retire to one side.]
           come forth with napkins.
       Second Servingman.
           When good manners
                shall lie
                    all in one
                        or two men's hands,
                  and they unwashed too,
             'tis a foul thing.
       First Servingman.
           Away with the join-stools,
                remove the court cupboard,
              look to the plate.
       Good thou,
           save me
               a piece of marchpane,
        and as thou loves me,
           let the porter
               let in Susan Grindstone
                    and Nell,
                and Potpan!
       Second Servingman.
           Ay, boy,
       First Servingman.
           You are looked for
                and called for,
              asked for and sought for,
                   in the great chamber.
       Third Servingman.
           We cannot be here
                and there too.
       Cheerly, boys!
       Be brisk awhile,
          and the longer liver
              take all.
       [Enter CAPULET,
            LADY CAPULET,
             and all the GUESTS
                 and GENTLEWOMEN,
           meeting the MASKERS.]
           Welcome, gentlemen!
            that have their toes
                Unplagued with corns
          will walk a bout with you.
           my mistresses,
         which of you all
              Will now deny to dance?
       She that makes dainty,
          She I'll swear hath corns.
       Am I come near ye now?
       Welcome, gentlemen!
       I have seen the day
            That I have worn a visor
          and could tell
               A whispering tale
                    in a fair lady's ear,
                 Such as would please.
       'Tis gone,
            'tis gone,
          'tis gone.
       You are welcome,
       [Music plays,
          and they dance.]
       A hall,
          a hall!
       Give room!
       And foot it, girls.
       More light,
            you knaves,
                and turn the tables up,
         And quench the fire;
            the room
               is grown too hot.
       Ah, sirrah,
          this unlooked-for sport
              comes well.
       Nay, sit;
           nay, sit,
         good cousin Capulet;
             For you and I
                are past our dancing days.
       How long is't now
          since last yourself and I
              Were in a mask?
       Second Capulet.
           By'r Lady,
               thirty years.
           What, man?
         'Tis not so much,
              'tis not so much;
            'Tis since
                 the nuptial of Lucentio,
          Come Pentecost
              as quickly as it will,
        Some five-and-twenty years,
            and then we masked.
       Second Capulet.
          'Tis more,
              'tis more.
       His son is elder, sir;
           His son is thirty.
           Will you tell me that?
       His son
           was but a ward
               two years ago.
          (to a SERVINGMAN).
              What lady's that
                  which doth enrich the hand
                      Of yonder knight?
           I know not, sir.
           O, she doth teach
              the torches
                  to burn bright!
       It seems
            she hangs upon
                the cheek of night
         As a rich jewel
             in an Ethiop's ear
       -- Beauty
               too rich for use,
                   for earth too dear!
       So shows a snowy dove
            trooping with crows
          As yonder lady
               o'er her fellows shows.
       The measure done,
            I'll watch her place of stand
            touching hers,
               make blessèd
                   my rude hand.
       Did my heart
          love till now?
       Forswear it,
       For I ne'er
           saw true beauty
                till this night.
           This, by his voice,
               should be a Montague.
       Fetch me my rapier,
          Dares the slave
              Come hither,
            covered with
                 an antic face,
         To fleer and scorn
             at our solemnity?
            by the stock and honor
                of my kin,
         To strike him dead
            I hold it not a sin.
           Why, how now,
       Wherefore storm you so?
                this is a Montague,
             our foe,
         A villain,
            that is hither come
                 in spite
              To scorn at our solemnity
                    this night.
           Young Romeo is it?
            'Tis he,
                 that villain Romeo.
           Content thee,
                gentle coz,
              let him alone.
       'A bears him
            like a portly gentleman,
               to say truth,
            Verona brags of him
                 To be a virtuous
               and well-governed youth.
       I would not
            for the wealth
                 of all this town
          Here in my house
             do him disparagement.
       Therefore be patient;
           take no note of him.
       It is my will,
            the which if thou respect,
          Show a fair presence
                and put off these frowns,
             An ill-beseeming semblance
                  for a feast.
           It fits
              when such a villain
                  is a guest.
       I'll not endure him.
           He shall be endured.
          goodman boy!
       I say he shall.
       Go to!
       Am I the master here,
          or you?
       Go to!
       You'll not endure him,
          God shall mend my soul!
       You'll make a mutiny
            among my guests!
       You will set
       You'll be the man!
           Why, uncle,
              'tis a shame.
           Go to, go to!
       You are a saucy boy.
       Is't so, indeed?
       This trick may chance
           to scathe you.
       I know what.
       You must contrary me!
       Marry, 'tis time
        -- Well said,
                my hearts! --
              You are a princox -- go!
       Be quiet, or
         -- More light, more light! --
                For shame!
       I'll make you quiet.
         -- Cheerly,
               my hearts!
           Patience perforce
                with willful choler meeting
              Makes my flesh tremble
                   in their different greeting.
       I will withdraw;
          but this intrusion shall,
               Now seeming sweet,
            convert to bitt'rest gall.
           If I profane
              with my unworthiest hand
                   This holy shrine,
        the gentle sin is this:
            My lips,
                 two blushing pilgrims,
               ready stand
                    To smooth that rough touch
                        with a tender kiss.
           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.
           Have not saints lips,
               and holy palmers too?
           Ay, pilgrim,
              lips that
                  they must use in prayer.
           O, then,
               dear saint,
             let lips do
                  what hands do!
       They pray;
          grant thou,
             lest faith turn to despair.
           Saints do not move,
               though grant for prayers' sake.
           Then move not
              while my prayer's effect
                   I take.
       Thus from my lips,
          by thine
             my sin is purged.
       [Kisses her.]
           Then have my lips
               the sin
                   that they have took.
           Sin from my lips?
       O trespass sweetly urged!
       Give me my sin again.
       [Kisses her.]
           You kiss by th'book.
               your mother
                   craves a word with you.
           What is her mother?
           Marry, bachelor,
         Her mother
              is the lady of the house,
           And a good lady,
                and a wise and virtuous.
       I nursed her daughter
           that you talked withal.
       I tell you,
          he that can
             lay hold of her
                 Shall have the chinks.
           Is she a Capulet?
       O dear account!
       My life
           is my foe's debt.
           Away, be gone;
               the sport
                   is at the best.
           Ay, so I fear;
               the more is my unrest.
           Nay, gentlemen,
               prepare not to be gone;
             We have a trifling
                 foolish banquet towards.
       Is it e'en so?
       Why then,
          I thank you all.
       I thank you,
          honest gentlemen.
       Good night.
       More torches here!
       Come on then;
           let's to bed.
       Ah, sirrah,
            by my fay,
          it waxes late;
               I'll to my rest.
       [Exeunt all
           but JULIET and NURSE.]
           Come hither, nurse.
       What is yond gentleman?
           The son and heir
               of old Tiberio.
           What's he
                that now
                   is going out of door?
         that, I think,
             be young Petruchio.
           What's he that follows there,
               that would not dance?
           I know not.
           Go ask his name.
       --If he be marrièd,
            My grave
               is like to be
                   my wedding bed.
           His name is Romeo,
                and a Montague,
             The only son
                  of your great enemy.
           My only love,
               sprung from
                    my only hate!
       Too early seen unknown,
          and known too late!
       Prodigious birth of love
            it is to me
          That I must love
               a loathèd enemy.
           What's this?
                What's this?
           A rhyme I learnt even now
               Of one I danced withal.
       [One calls within, "Juliet."]
           Anon, anon!
          let's away;
             the strangers all are gone.
       Enter CHORUS.
            Now old desire
                doth in his deathbed lie,
          And young affection
              gapes to be his heir;
        That fair
             for which love groaned for
                   and would die,
          With tender Juliet matched,
              is now not fair.
       Now Romeo
            is beloved and loves again,
          Alike bewitchèd
                by the charm of looks;
         But to his foe supposed
             he must complain,
           And she
               steal love's sweet bait
                  from fearful hooks.
       Being held a foe,
           he may not have access
               To breathe such vows
                    as lovers use to swear,
         And she as much in love,
             her means much less
                To meet her
                    new belovèd anywhere;
         But passion
             lends them power,
                 time means,
            to meet,
               Temp'ring extremities
                  with extreme sweet.
       Enter ROMEO alone.
           Can I go forward
                when my heart is here?
       Turn back,
            dull earth,
          and find thy center out.
       [Enter BENVOLIO with MERCUTIO.
       ROMEO retires.]
               My cousin Romeo!
           He is wise And,
                on my life,
              hath stol'n him home
                   to bed.
           He ran this way
              and leapt this orchard wall.
          good Mercutio.
               I'll conjure too.
       Appear thou
            in the likeness of a sigh;
          Speak but one rhyme,
               and I am satisfied!
       Cry but "Ay me!"
            pronounce but "love" and "dove";
          Speak to my gossip Venus
               one fair word,
             One nickname
                  for her purblind son and heir,
                Young Abraham Cupid,
        he that shot so true
           When King Cophetua
                loved the beggar maid!
       He heareth not,
          he stirreth not,
        he moveth not;
            The ape is dead,
                 and I must conjure him.
       I conjure thee
            by Rosaline's bright eyes,
          By her high forehead
               and her scarlet lip,
        By her fine foot,
            straight leg,
               and quivering thigh,
          And the demesnes
              that there adjacent lie,
        That in thy likeness
            thou appear to us!
           And if he hear thee,
               thou wilt anger him.
           This cannot anger him.
       'Twould anger him
           To raise a spirit
                 in his mistress' circle
              Of some strange nature,
        letting it there stand
           Till she had laid it
               and conjured it down.
       That were some spite;
          my invocation
               Is fair and honest:
        in his mistress' name,
           I conjure only
               but to raise up him.
               he hath hid himself
                   among these trees
          To be consorted
             with the humorous night.
       Blind is his love
           and best befits the dark.
           If love be blind,
               love cannot hit the mark.
       And wish his mistress were
            that kind of fruit
          As maids call medlars
               when they laugh alone.
       O, Romeo,
            that she were,
          O that she were
                An open et cetera,
                    thou a pop'rin pear!
       Romeo, good night.
       I'll to my truckle bed;
          This field bed is too cold
               for me to sleep.
          shall we go?
           Go then,
         for 'tis in vain
             To seek him here
                 that means not to be found.
       [Exit with others.]
          (coming forward).
              He jests at scars
                  that never felt a wound.
       [Enter JULIET at a window.]
       But soft!
       What light
           through yonder window breaks?
       It is the East,
          and Juliet is the sun!
            fair sun,
          and kill the envious moon,
       Who is already sick
            and pale with grief
          That thou her maid
               art far more fair than she,
        Be not her maid,
            since she is envious.
       Her vestal livery
            is but sick and green,
          And none but fools
               do wear it.
       Cast it off.
       It is my lady!
       O, it is my love!
       O, that she knew
             she were!
       She speaks,
          yet she says nothing.
       What of that?
       Her eye discourses;
           I will answer it.
       I am too bold;
          'tis not to me
               she speaks.
       Two of the fairest stars
            in all the heaven,
               Having some business,
         do entreat her eyes
             To twinkle in their spheres
                  till they return.
       What if her eyes
            were there,
          they in her head?
       The brightness of her cheek
            would shame those stars
                As daylight doth a lamp;
         her eyes in heaven
                 through the airy region
                    stream so bright
           That birds would sing
              and think
                 it were not night.
       See how
           she leans her cheek
               upon her hand!
          that I were a glove
               upon that hand,
            That I might touch that cheek!
           Ay me!
           She speaks.
          speak again,
              bright angel,
        for thou art
            As glorious to this night,
                 being o'er my head,
          As is a wingèd messenger
               of heaven
            Unto the white-upturnèd
                  wond'ring eyes Of mortals
         that fall back
              to gaze on him
            When he bestrides
                 the lazy puffing clouds
          And sails upon
              the bosom of the air.
           O Romeo, Romeo!
       Wherefore art thou Romeo?
       Deny thy father
            and refuse thy name;
             if thou wilt not,
           be but sworn my love,
               And I'll no longer
                   be a Capulet.
              Shall I hear more,
                 or shall I speak at this?
           'Tis but thy name
                that is my enemy.
       Thou art thyself,
          though not a Montague.
       What's Montague?
       It is nor hand,
          nor foot,
        Nor arm,
            nor face.
          be some other name
             Belonging to a man.
       What's in a name?
       That which
            we call a rose
          By any other word
               would smell as sweet.
       So Romeo would,
            were he not Romeo called,
          Retain that dear perfection
               which he owes
                   Without that title.
            doff thy name;
          And for thy name,
              which is no part of thee,
                  Take all myself.
           I take thee
               at thy word.
       Call me but love,
            and I'll be new baptized;
              I never will be Romeo.
           What man art thou,
              thus bescreened in night,
            So stumblest
                 on my counsel?
           By a name
              I know not how
                 to tell thee who I am.
       My name,
            dear saint,
          is hateful to myself
            it is an enemy to thee.
       Had I it written,
          I would tear the word.
           My ears
               have yet not drunk
                   a hundred words
                        Of thy tongue's uttering,
                 yet I know the sound.
       Art thou not Romeo,
          and a Montague?
                fair maid,
              if either thee dislike.
           How camest thou hither,
                tell me,
              and wherefore?
       The orchard walls
           are high
               and hard to climb,
         And the place death,
             considering who thou art,
           If any of my kinsmen
                find thee here.
           With love's light wings
                did I o'erperch these walls;
         For stony limits
              cannot hold love out,
            And what love can do,
                 that dares love attempt.
       Therefore thy kinsmen
           are no stop to me.
           If they do see thee,
               they will murder thee.
              there lies
                   more peril in thine eye
                Than twenty of their swords!
       Look thou but sweet,
          And I am proof
             against their enmity.
           I would not
                for the world
              they saw thee here.
           I have night's cloak
                to hide me from their eyes;
              And but thou love me,
                   let them find me here.
       My life
           were better ended
                by their hate
             Than death proroguèd,
          wanting of thy love.
           By whose direction
               found'st thou out this place?
           By Love,
              that first did prompt me
                  to inquire.
       He lent me counsel,
          and I lent him eyes.
       I am no pilot;
              wert thou as far
                  As that vast shore
                      washed with the farthest sea,
            I should adventure
                for such merchandise.
           Thou knowest
               the mask of night
                   is on my face;
         Else would a maiden blush
              bepaint my cheek
            For that which
                 thou hast heard me
                     speak tonight.
          would I dwell on form
          -- fain,
                fain deny
                    What I have spoke;
          but farewell compliment,
             Dost thou love me?
       I know
           thou wilt say "Ay";
               And I will take thy word.
            if thou swear'st,
          Thou mayst prove false.
       At lovers' perjuries,
          They say Jove laughs.
       O gentle Romeo,
          If thou dost love,
             pronounce it faithfully.
       Or if thou think'st
            I am too quickly won,
          I'll frown
             and be perverse
                  and say thee nay,
               So thou wilt woo;
        but else,
          not for the world.
       In truth,
            fair Montague,
          I am too fond,
        And therefore
            thou mayst think
               my havior light;
         But trust me,
           I'll prove more true
               Than those
                   that have more cunning
                      to be strange.
       I should have been more strange,
            I must confess,
         But that thou overheard'st,
              ere I was ware,
                  My truelove passion.
       Therefore pardon me,
          And not impute this yielding
               to light love,
             Which the dark night
                  hath so discoverèd.
               by yonder blessèd moon
         I vow,
            That tips with silver
                all these fruit-tree tops--
              swear not
                   by the moon,
                 the inconstant moon,
         That monthly changes
              in her circle orb,
            Lest that thy love
                 prove likewise variable.
           What shall I swear by?
           Do not swear at all;
         Or if thou wilt,
             swear by
                 thy gracious self,
          Which is the god
              of my idolatry,
                 And I'll believe thee.
           If my heart's dear love--
              do not swear.
       Although I joy in thee,
          I have no joy
              of this contract tonight.
       It is too rash,
          too unadvised,
        too sudden;
             Too like the lightning,
           which doth cease to be
        Ere one
           can say it lightens.
          good night!
       This bud of love,
            by summer's
                ripening breath,
         May prove
            a beauteous flower
               when next we meet.
       Good night,
          good night!
       As sweet repose and rest
          Come to thy heart
              as that within my breast!
             wilt thou leave me
                 so unsatisfied?
           What satisfaction
               canst thou have tonight?
           The exchange
               of thy love's faithful vow
                    for mine.
           I gave thee mine
                before thou didst request it;
           And yet
              I would it were
                  to give again.
           Wouldst thou withdraw it?
       For what purpose,
           But to be frank
                and give it thee again.
       And yet I wish
           but for the thing
               I have.
       My bounty
            is as boundless as the sea,
          My love as deep;
        the more
             I give to thee,
           The more I have,
                for both are infinite.
       I hear some noise within.
       Dear love, adieu!
       [NURSE calls within.]
          good nurse!
       Sweet Montague,
          be true.
       Stay but a little,
          I will come again.
           O blessèd,
               blessèd night!
       I am afeard,
            Being in night,
          all this
               is but a dream,
        Too flattering-sweet
            to be substantial.
       [Enter JULIET again.]
           Three words,
                dear Romeo,
              and good night indeed.
       If that
            thy bent of love
                be honorable,
          Thy purpose marriage,
        send me word tomorrow,
          By one
              that I'll procure
                  to come to thee,
            Where and what time
                thou wilt perform the rite;
          And all my fortunes
              at thy foot I'll lay
        And follow thee
           my lord
              throughout the world.
           I come anon.
       --But if thou meanest
              not well,
            I do beseech thee--
           By and by I come.
       --To cease thy strife
             and leave me
                  to my grief.
       Tomorrow will I send.
           So thrive my soul--
           A thousand times
               good night!
           A thousand times the worse,
               to want thy light!
       Love goes toward love
            as schoolboys from their books;
          But love from love,
               toward school with heavy looks.
       [Enter JULIET again.]
       Romeo, hist!
       O for a falc'ner's voice
          To lure this tassel
              gentle back again!
       Bondage is hoarse
            and may not speak aloud,
          Else would I
              tear the cave
                 where Echo lies
         And make
            her airy tongue
                more hoarse than mine
          With repetition of
             "My Romeo!"
           It is my soul
              that calls upon my name.
       How silver-sweet
            sound lovers' tongues by night,
          Like softest music
                to attending ears!
           My sweet?
           What o'clock tomorrow
               Shall I send to thee?
           By the hour of nine.
           I will not fail.
       'Tis twenty years till then.
       I have forgot
          why I did call thee back.
           Let me stand here
               till thou remember it.
           I shall forget,
               to have thee
                   still stand there,
            how I love thy company.
           And I'll still stay,
               to have thee still forget,
            any other home but this.
            'Tis almost morning.
       I would have thee gone
        -- And yet no farther
                 than a wanton's bird,
              That lets it hop a little
                    from his hand,
            Like a poor prisoner
                in his twisted gyves,
          And with a silken thread
             plucks it back again,
                 So loving-jealous of his liberty.
           I would I were thy bird.
               so would I.
       Yet I should kill thee
           with much cherishing.
       Good night,
          good night!
       Parting is such sweet sorrow
          That I shall say good night
                till it be morrow.
           Sleep dwell upon thine eyes,
               peace in thy breast!
       Would I were
           sleep and peace,
              so sweet to rest!
       Hence will I
            to my ghostly friar's
                close cell,
         His help to crave
             and my dear hap to tell.
       Enter FRIAR LAURENCE alone,
          with a basket.
           The gray-eyed morn smiles
                on the frowning night,
             the eastern clouds
                with streaks of light;
        And fleckèd darkness
            like a drunkard reels
                 From forth day's path
              and Titan's burning wheels.
            ere the sun
                advance his burning eye
         The day to cheer
             and night's dank dew to dry,
        I must upfill
             this osier cage of ours
           With baleful weeds
                and precious-juicèd flowers.
       The earth that's Nature's mother
           is her tomb.
       What is her burying grave,
            that is her womb;
          And from her womb
              children of divers kind
                  We sucking
                       on her natural bosom find,
          Many for many virtues excellent,
              None but for some,
                  and yet all different.
          mickle is
              the powerful grace
                  that lies In plants,
                 and their true qualities;
        For naught so vile
            that on the earth
                 doth live
          But to the earth
             some special good
                 doth give;
        Nor aught so good but,
             strained from that fair use,
           Revolts from true birth,
                 stumbling on abuse.
       Virtue itself turns vice,
            being misapplied,
          And vice
              sometime by action dignified.
       [Enter ROMEO.]
       Within the infant rind
            of this weak flower
              hath residence
                  and medicine power;
        For this,
             being smelt,
           with that part
                cheers each part;
          Being tasted,
             stays all senses
                 with the heart.
       Two such opposèd kings
            encamp them still
          In man as well as herbs
            -- grace and rude will;
        And where the worser
             is predominant,
           Full soon the canker death
               eats up that plant.
            Enter ROMEO
           Good morrow,
       What early tongue
           so sweet
               saluteth me?
       Young son,
           it argues
               a distemperèd head
         So soon
            to bid good morrow
                to thy bed.
       Care keeps his watch
            in every old man's eye,
          And where care lodges,
               sleep will never lie;
        But where unbruisèd youth
             with unstuffed brain
                  Doth couch his limbs,
           there golden sleep
               doth reign.
       Therefore thy earliness
            doth me assure
          Thou art uproused
               with some distemp'rature;
        Or if not so,
           then here I hit it right
           -- Our Romeo
                 hath not been
                    in bed tonight.
           That last is true.
       The sweeter rest
           was mine.
           God pardon sin!
       Wast thou with Rosaline?
           With Rosaline,
               my ghostly father?
          I have forgot that name
              and that name's woe.
           That's my good son!
       But where
          hast thou been then?
           I'll tell thee
               ere thou ask it me again.
       I have been feasting
             with mine enemy,
          Where on a sudden
               one hath wounded me
                   That's by me wounded.
       Both our remedies
          Within thy help
             and holy physic lies.
       I bear no hatred,
            blessèd man,
          for, lo,
              My intercession
                 likewise steads my foe.
           Be plain,
               good son,
             and homely in thy drift.
       Riddling confession finds
          but riddling shrift.
           Then plainly know
         my heart's
              dear love is set
                  On the fair daughter
                      of rich Capulet;
            As mine on hers,
                so hers is set on mine,
          And all combined,
               save what thou must combine
                   By holy marriage.
       When and where
            and how We met,
          we wooed,
               and made exchange of vow,
        I'll tell thee
            as we pass;
          but this I pray,
              That thou consent
                  to marry us today.
           Holy Saint Francis!
       What a change
           is here!
       Is Rosaline,
            that thou
               didst love so dear,
          So soon forsaken?
       Young men's love then lies
            Not truly in their hearts,
          but in their eyes.
       Jesu Maria!
       What a deal of brine
          Hath washed
             thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!
       How much salt water
            thrown away in waste
          To season love,
               that of it doth not taste!
       The sun not yet
            thy signs from heaven clears,
          Thy old groans ring yet
               in mine ancient ears.
            here upon thy cheek
          the stain doth sit
              Of an old tear
                 that is not washed off yet.
       If e'er thou wast thyself,
          and these woes thine,
        Thou and these woes
             were all for Rosaline.
       And art thou changed?
       Pronounce this sentence then:
           Women may fall
               when there's
                   no strength in men.
           Thou chid'st me oft
               for loving Rosaline.
           For doting,
                not for loving,
              pupil mine.
           And bad'st me bury love.
           Not in a grave
                To lay one in,
             another out to have.
           I pray thee
               chide me not.
       Her I love now
          Doth grace for grace
               and love for love allow.
       The other did not so.
           O she knew well
                Thy love did read by rote,
             that could not spell.
       But come,
          young waverer,
             come go with me.
       In one respect
            I'll thy assistant be;
          For this alliance
              may so happy prove
        To turn your
            households' rancor
               to pure love.
           Wisely and slow.
       They stumble
           that run fast.
       Enter BENVOLIO and MERCUTIO.
           Not to his father's.
       I spoke with his man.
               that same pale
                    hardhearted wench,
                  that Rosaline,
            Torments him
                so that
                   he will sure run mad.
               the kinsman
                   to old Capulet,
             Hath sent a letter
                 to his father's house.
           A challenge,
               on my life.
           Romeo will answer it.
           Any man
                 that can write
               may answer a letter.
         he will answer
             the letter's master,
           how he dares,
                being dared.
           Alas, poor Romeo,
                he is already dead:
         stabbed with
              a white wench's black eye;
            run through the ear
                  with a love song;
          the very pin of his heart
              cleft with
                  the blind bow-boy's
           and is he a man
               to encounter Tybalt?
              what is Tybalt?
           More than Prince of Cats.
          he's the courageous captain
              of compliments.
       He fights
           as you sing pricksong
           -- keeps time,
                and proportion;
         he rests
             his minim rests,
               two and the third
                   in your bosom!
       The very butcher
            of a silk button,
          a duelist,
               a duelist!
       A gentleman
            of the very first house,
          of the first
               and second cause.
          the immortal passado!
       The punto reverso!
       The hay!
           The what?
           The pox of such antic,
              affecting fantasticoes
                 -- these new tuners of accent!
       "By Jesu,
          a very good blade!
       A very tall man!
       A very good whore!"
            is not this
                 a lamentable thing,
               grand sir,
          that we
              should be thus afflicted
                  with these strange flies,
          these fashionmongers,
              these pardon-me's,
            who stand so much
                 on the new form
               that they cannot sit
                    at ease
                        on the old bench?
            their bones,
          their bones!
       [Enter ROMEO.]
           Here comes Romeo!
       Here comes Romeo!
           Without his roe,
              like a dried herring.
       O flesh, flesh,
          how art thou fishified!
       Now is he
           for the numbers
               that Petrarch flowed in.
            to his lady,
          was a kitchen wench
                  she had a better love
                      to berhyme her),
            Dido a dowdy,
                 Cleopatra a gypsy,
               Helen and Hero
                    hildings and harlots,
            Thisbe a gray eye or so,
                but not to the purpose.
       Signior Romeo,
       There's a French salutation
            to your French slop.
       You gave us
           the counterfeit
               fairly last night.
           Good morrow to you both.
       What counterfeit
            did I give you?
           The slip, sir,
               the slip.
       Can you not conceive?
               good Mercutio.
       My business was great,
           and in such a case as mine
              a man may strain courtesy.
           That's as much as to say,
                such a case as yours
                    constrains a man
                         to bow in the hams.
               to curtsy.
           Thou hast
               most kindly hit it.
           A most courteous exposition.
               I am the very pink
                   of courtesy.
           Pink for flower.
           Why, then
               is my pump well-flowered.
           Sure wit,
                follow me this jest now
              till thou hast
                   worn out thy pump,
            when the single sole of it
                is worn,
         the jest may remain,
             after the wearing,
                  solely singular.
           O single-soled jest,
               solely singular
                  for the singleness!
           Come between us,
               good Benvolio!
       My wits faint.
           Swits and spurs,
                swits and spurs;
              or I'll cry a match.
                if our wits
                    run the wild-goose chase,
              I am done;
          for thou
              hast more
                  of the wild goose
                      in one of thy wits than,
                  I am sure,
             I have in my whole five.
       Was I with you there
           for the goose?
           Thou wast never
                with me for anything
              when thou wast not there
                    for the goose.
           I will bite thee
              by the ear
                  for that jest.
              good goose,
                  bite not!
           Thy wit
                 is a very bitter sweeting;
               it is a most sharp sauce.
           And is it not, then,
              well served in
                  to a sweet goose?
              here's a wit of cheveril,
                  that stretches
                        from an inch narrow
                      to an ell broad!
           I stretch it out
                for that word "broad,"
          added to the goose,
             proves thee far and wide
                 a broad goose.
         is not this better now
             than groaning for love?
       Now art thou sociable,
            now art thou Romeo;
          now art thou
               what thou art,
            by art as well as by nature.
       For this driveling love
          is like a great natural
              that runs lolling
                   up and down
                 to hide his bauble
                      in a hole.
           Stop there,
               stop there!
           Thou desirest me
               to stop in my tale
                    against the hair.
       [Enter NURSE and
            her man PETER.]
       A sail,
          a sail!
           Two, two!
       A shirt and a smock.
           My fan, Peter.
           Good Peter,
                 to hide her face;
              for her fan's the fairer face.
           God ye good morrow,
           God ye good-den,
               fair gentlewoman.
           Is it good-den?
            'Tis no less,
                  I tell ye;
                for the bawdy hand of the dial
                     is now upon
                        the prick of noon.
           Out upon you!
       What a man are you!
              that God hath made,
                    himself to mar.
           By my troth,
               it is well said.
       "For himself to mar,"
          quoth 'a?
          can any of you tell me
             where I may find
                 the young Romeo?
           I can tell you;
         but young Romeo
              will be older
                   when you have found him
            than he was
                when you sought him.
       I am the youngest
            of that name,
          for fault of a worse.
           You say well.
              is the worst well?
       Very well took,
            i' faith!
           If you be he, sir,
              I desire
                  some confidence with you.
           She will endite him
               to some supper.
           A bawd,
               a bawd,
             a bawd!
       So ho!
           What hast thou found?
           No hare, sir;
              unless a hare, sir,
                   in a Lenten pie,
                 that is something
                     stale and hoar
                         ere it be spent.
       [He walks by them and sings.]
       An old hare hoar,
          And an old hare hoar,
              Is very good meat in Lent;
        But a hare that is hoar
            Is too much for a score
          When it hoars
                ere it be spent.
          will you come
             to your father's?
       We'll to dinner thither.
           I will follow you.
              ancient lady.
             "Lady, lady, lady."
       [Exeunt MERCUTIO,
           I pray you, sir,
         what saucy merchant was this
              that was so full
                  of his ropery?
           A gentleman,
             that loves
                  to hear himself talk
           and will speak
               more in a minute
             than he will stand to
                  in a month.
           And 'a speak anything
                against me,
              I'll take him down,
         and 'a were lustier
             than he is,
                  and twenty such Jacks;
          and if I cannot,
              I'll find those that shall.
       Scurvy knave!
       I am none
            of his flirt-gills;
          I am none
              of his skainsmates.
       And thou must stand by too,
          and suffer every knave
              to use me
                   at his pleasure!
           I saw no man
               use you at his pleasure.
       If I had,
         my weapon
            should quickly have been out,
                I warrant you.
       I dare draw
            as soon as another man,
          if I see occasion
              in a good quarrel,
                 and the law on my side.
           Now, afore God,
               I am so vexed
                   that every part
                      about me quivers.
       Scurvy knave!
       Pray you, sir, a word;
               as I told you,
             my young lady bid me
                  inquire you out.
       What she bid me say,
            I will keep to myself;
         but first let me tell ye,
              if ye should lead her
                 in a fool's paradise,
           as they say,
        it were
            a very gross kind
                of behavior,
              as they say;
        for the gentlewoman is young;
            and therefore,
          if you should
              deal double with her,
         truly it were
             an ill thing to be offered
                  to any gentlewoman,
               and very weak dealing.
              commend me
                  to thy lady and mistress.
       I protest unto thee--
           Good heart,
                and i' faith
              I will tell her as much.
          she will be
              a joyful woman.
           What wilt thou tell her,
       Thou dost not mark me.
            I will tell her, sir,
                that you do protest,
             as I take it,
                 is a gentlemanlike offer.
           And stay,
               good nurse,
             behind the abbey wall.
       Within this hour
            my man shall be with thee
          And bring thee cords
                made like a tackled stair,
        Which to
            the high topgallant of my joy
                Must be my convoy
                    in the secret night.
       Be trusty,
          and I'll quit thy pains.
       Commend me
           to thy mistress.
           Now God in heaven
               bless thee!
       Hark you, sir.
           What say'st thou,
               my dear nurse?
           Is your man secret?
       Did you ne'er hear say,
           may keep counsel,
               putting one away?
           Warrant thee
                my man's as true as steel.
           Well, sir,
               my mistress
                   is the sweetest lady.
       When 'twas
             a little prating thing
        -- O, there is
                a nobleman in town,
                    one Paris,
              that would fain
                 lay knife aboard;
         but she,
              good soul,
           had as lieve see a toad,
                a very toad,
                    as see him.
       I anger her sometimes,
            and tell her that Paris
                is the properer man;
        but I'll warrant you,
            when I say so,
          she looks as pale
               as any clout
                   in the versal world.
       Doth not rosemary
           and Romeo
               begin both with a letter?
           Aye, nurse;
               what of that?
       Both with an R.
           Ah, mocker!
       That's the dog's name.
       R is for the -- no;
          I know it begins
               with some other letter;
             and she hath
                   the prettiest sententious of it,
                of you and rosemary,
         that it would
            do you good to hear it.
           Commend me to thy lady.
           Ay, a thousand times.
       [Exit ROMEO.]
               and apace.
       [Exit after PETER.]
       Enter JULIET.
           The clock struck nine
                when I did send the nurse;
         In half an hour
             she promised to return.
           she cannot meet him.
       That's not so.
       O, she is lame!
       Love's heralds
            should be thoughts,
          Which ten times faster glide
                 than the sun's beams
              Driving back shadows
                    over low'ring hills.
            do nimble-pinioned doves
                 draw Love,
         And therefore hath
            the wind-swift Cupid wings.
       Now is the sun
            upon the highmost hill
                Of this day's journey,
        and from nine till twelve
            Is three long hours;
                yet she is not come.
       Had she affections
            and warm youthful blood,
          She would be
               as swift in motion
                    as a ball;
        My words
            would bandy her
                 to my sweet love,
          And his to me.
       But old folks,
          many feign
               as they were dead
         -- Unwieldy,
            and pale as lead.
       [Enter NURSE and PETER.]
       O God,
          she comes!
       O honey nurse,
          what news?
       Hast thou met with him?
       Send thy man away.
               stay at the gate.
       [Exit PETER.]
               good sweet nurse
         -- O Lord,
                 why look'st thou sad?
       Though news be sad,
            yet tell them merrily;
          If good,
              thou sham'st
                  the music of sweet news
           By playing it to me
               with so sour a face.
           I am aweary,
              give me leave awhile.
          how my bones ache!
       What a jaunce have I!
           I would
                thou hadst my bones,
              and I thy news.
       Nay, come,
          I pray thee speak.
       Good, good nurse,
              what haste!
       Can you not stay awhile?
       Do you not see
           that I am out of breath?
           How art thou out of breath
                when thou hast breath
              To say to me
                   that thou art out of breath?
       The excuse
            that thou dost make
                in this delay
         Is longer than the tale
            thou dost excuse.
       Is thy news
           good or bad?
       Answer to that.
       Say either,
          and I'll stay
              the circumstance.
       Let me be satisfied,
          is't good or bad?
         you have made
              a simple choice;
            you know not how
                 to choose a man.
       No, not he.
       Though his face
            be better than any man's,
          yet his leg
               excels all men's;
         and for a hand
             and a foot,
                 and a body,
           though they be not
               to be talked on,
                   yet they are past compare.
       He is not
            the flower of courtesy,
               I'll warrant him,
                  as gentle as a lamb.
       Go thy ways, wench;
           serve God.
          have you dined at home?
           No, no.
       But all this
          did I know before.
       What says he
            of our marriage?
       What of that?
              how my head aches!
       What a head have I!
       It beats
           as it would fall
               in twenty pieces.
       My back a' t' other side
         -- ah, my back,
                my back!
       Beshrew your heart
            for sending me about
          To catch my death
               with jauncing up and down!
           I' faith,
         I am sorry
             that thou art not well.
        sweet nurse,
            tell me,
               what says my love?
           Your love says,
                like an honest gentleman,
              and a courteous,
           and a kind,
        and a handsome,
           and, I warrant,
              a virtuous
              -- where is your mother?
           Where is my mother?
          she is within.
       Where should she be?
       How oddly thou repliest!
       "Your love says,
            like an honest gentleman,
                'Where is your mother?'"
           O God's Lady dear!
       Are you so hot?
       Marry come up,
          I trow.
       Is this the poultice
           for my aching bones?
           do your messages yourself.
           Here's such a coil!
          what says Romeo?
           Have you got leave
               to go to shrift today?
           I have.
           Then hie you hence
                to Friar Laurence' cell;
         There stays a husband
             to make you a wife.
       Now comes the wanton blood
            up in your cheeks.
       They'll be
           in scarlet straight
               at any news.
       Hie you to church;
            I must another way,
          To fetch a ladder,
               by the which your love
                   Must climb
                        a bird's nest soon
                      when it is dark.
       I am the drudge,
            and toil in your delight;
          But you shall
              bear the burden soon
                  at night.
           I'll to dinner;
              hie you to the cell.
           Hie to high fortune!
       Honest nurse, farewell.
       Enter FRIAR LAURENCE and ROMEO.
           So smile the heavens
                upon this holy act
              That afterhours with sorrow
                  chide us not!
           Amen, amen!
       But come what sorrow can,
          It cannot countervail
               the exchange of joy
             That one short minute
                 gives me in her sight.
       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.
           These violent delights
                have violent ends
              And in their triumph die,
                   like fire and powder,
              as they kiss,
       The sweetest honey
           Is loathsome
                in his own deliciousness
              And in the taste
                   confounds the appetite.
       Therefore love moderately:
            long love doth so;
          Too swift arrives
              as tardy as too slow.
       [Enter JULIET.]
       Here comes the lady.
          so light a foot
             Will ne'er wear out
                  the everlasting flint.
       A lover may bestride
            the gossamers
          That idle
               in the wanton summer air,
                   And yet not fall;
             so light is vanity.
           Good even
                to my ghostly confessor.
           Romeo shall thank thee,
                  for us both.
           As much to him,
               else is his thanks too much.
           Ah, Juliet,
              if the measure of thy joy
                  Be heaped like mine,
            and that thy skill
                be more To blazon it,
         then sweeten
            with thy breath
                This neighbor air,
       and let rich music's tongue
          Unfold the imagined happiness
               that both Receive
             in either
                 by this dear encounter.
              more rich in matter
                   than in words,
            Brags of his substance,
                not of ornament.
       They are
            but beggars
                that can count their worth;
          But my true love
              is grown to such excess
            I cannot sum up sum
                 of half my wealth.
                come with me,
              and we will make
                  short work;
            by your leaves,
          you shall not stay alone
              Till holy church
                  incorporate two in one.
       Enter MERCUTIO,
          BENVOLIO, and MEN.
           I pray thee,
                good Mercutio,
             let's retire.
       The day is hot,
            the Capels are abroad,
             if we meet,
                we shall not 'scape a brawl,
         For now,
             these hot days,
                is the mad blood stirring.
           Thou art like
                one of these fellows that,
        when he enters
             the confines of a tavern,
          claps me his sword
               upon the table and says,
           "God send me
                 no need of thee!"
               and by the operation
                    of the second cup
                 draws him on the drawer,
          when indeed
              there is no need.
           Am I like such a fellow?
           Come, come,
               thou art as hot a Jack
                    in thy mood
                  as any in Italy;
         and as soon moved
              to be moody,
            and as soon moody
                 to be moved.
           And what to?
               and there were two such,
        we should have none shortly,
            for one
                would kill the other.
          thou wilt quarrel
               with a man
             that hath a hair more
                 or a hair less
                      in his beard
                    than thou hast.
       Thou wilt quarrel
            with a man
                 for cracking nuts,
         having no other reason
             but because
                 thou hast hazel eyes.
       What eye
           but such an eye
              would spy out
                   such a quarrel?
       Thy head
             is as full of quarrels
           as an egg
               is full of meat;
        and yet thy head
            hath been beaten
               as addle as an egg
                    for quarreling.
       Thou hast quarreled
            with a man
                for coughing in the street,
         because he
            hath wakened thy dog
               that hath lain asleep
                   in the sun.
       Didst thou not fall out
            with a tailor
          for wearing
               his new doublet before Easter?
       With another
           for tying his new shoes
                with old riband?
       And yet
           thou wilt tutor me
              from quarreling!
          And I were
              so apt to quarrel
                 as thou art,
          any man should buy
             the fee simple of my life
                 for an hour
                    and a quarter.
           The fee simple?
       O simple!
       Enter MERCUTIO,
          BENVOLIO, and MEN.
           I pray thee,
                good Mercutio,
             let's retire.
       The day is hot,
            the Capels are abroad,
             if we meet,
                we shall not 'scape a brawl,
         For now,
             these hot days,
                is the mad blood stirring.
           Thou art like
                one of these fellows that,
        when he enters
             the confines of a tavern,
          claps me his sword
               upon the table and says,
           "God send me
                 no need of thee!"
               and by the operation
                    of the second cup
                 draws him on the drawer,
          when indeed
              there is no need.
           Am I like such a fellow?
           Come, come,
               thou art as hot a Jack
                    in thy mood
                  as any in Italy;
         and as soon moved
              to be moody,
            and as soon moody
                 to be moved.
           And what to?
               and there were two such,
        we should have none shortly,
            for one
                would kill the other.
          thou wilt quarrel
               with a man
             that hath a hair more
                 or a hair less
                      in his beard
                    than thou hast.
       Thou wilt quarrel
            with a man
                 for cracking nuts,
         having no other reason
             but because
                 thou hast hazel eyes.
       What eye
           but such an eye
              would spy out
                   such a quarrel?
       Thy head
             is as full of quarrels
           as an egg
               is full of meat;
        and yet thy head
            hath been beaten
               as addle as an egg
                    for quarreling.
       Thou hast quarreled
            with a man
                for coughing in the street,
         because he
            hath wakened thy dog
               that hath lain asleep
                   in the sun.
       Didst thou not fall out
            with a tailor
          for wearing
               his new doublet before Easter?
       With another
           for tying his new shoes
                with old riband?
       And yet
           thou wilt tutor me
              from quarreling!
          And I were
              so apt to quarrel
                 as thou art,
          any man should buy
             the fee simple of my life
                 for an hour
                    and a quarter.
           The fee simple?
       O simple!
       [Enter TYBALT and others.]
           By my head,
              here come the Capulets.
           By my heel,
               I care not.
           Follow me close,
               for I will speak to them.
       A word with one of you.
           And but one word
              with one of us?
       Couple it with something;
           make it a word
               and a blow.
           You shall find me
               apt enough to that, sir,
          and you
             will give me occasion.
           Could you
                not take some occasion
                    without giving?
               thou consortest with Romeo.
          dost thou
              make us minstrels?
       And thou
            make minstrels of us,
          look to hear
               nothing but discords.
       Here's my fiddlestick;
           here's that
               shall make you dance.
           We talk here
                in the public haunt of men.
       Either withdraw
            unto some private place,
          Or reason coldly
              of your grievances,
                  Or else depart.
       Here all eyes
           gaze on us.
           Men's eyes
                were made to look,
              and let them gaze.
       I will not budge
           for no man's pleasure, I.
       [Enter ROMEO.]
              peace be with you, sir.
       Here comes my man.
           But I'll be hanged, sir,
               if he wear your livery.
          go before to field,
              he'll be your follower!
       Your worship
            in that sense
               may call him man.
         the love I bear thee
              can afford
                 No better term than this:
            thou art a villain.
         the reason
              that I have to love thee
           Doth much excuse
                the appertaining rage
                    To such a greeting.
       Villain am I none.
       Therefore farewell.
       I see
           thou knowest me not.
               this shall not excuse
                    the injuries
                  That thou hast done me;
             therefore turn and draw.
           I do protest
                I never injured thee,
             But love thee better
                   than thou canst devise
                Till thou shalt know
                     the reason of my love;
         And so,
              good Capulet,
           which name I tender
                As dearly as mine own,
                    be satisfied.
           O calm,
             vile submission!
       Alla stoccata
           carries it away.
          you ratcatcher,
              will you walk?
           What wouldst thou
                have with me?
           Good King of Cats,
               nothing but
                   one of your nine lives.
       That I mean
            to make bold withal,
              as you shall use me
           dry-beat the rest
               of the eight.
       Will you
           pluck your sword
               out of his pilcher
                  by the ears?
       Make haste,
          lest mine
             be about your ears
                 ere it be out.
           I am for you.
           Gentle Mercutio,
                put thy rapier up.
           Come, sir,
               your passado!
       [They fight.]
           Draw, Benvolio;
               beat down their weapons.
          for shame!
       Forbear this outrage!
        the prince
            expressly hath Forbid
                this bandying
                    in Verona streets.
       Hold, Tybalt!
       Good Mercutio!
       [TYBALT under Romeo's arm
            thrusts MERCUTIO in,
                and flies.]
           I am hurt.
       A plague a' both houses!
       I am sped.
       Is he gone
           and hath nothing?
               art thou hurt?
           Ay, ay,
              a scratch,
                 a scratch.
           'tis enough.
       Where is my page?
       Go, villain,
          fetch a surgeon.
       [Exit PAGE.]
           Courage, man.
       The hurt
           cannot be much.
              'tis not so deep
                  as a well,
            nor so wide
               as a church door;
         but 'tis enough,
            'twill serve.
       Ask for me tomorrow,
          and you shall find me
             a grave man.
       I am peppered,
          I warrant,
              for this world.
       A plague
           a' both your houses!
          a dog,
        a rat,
          a mouse,
        a cat,
            to scratch
               a man to death!
       A braggart,
           a rogue,
         a villain,
             that fights by the book
                of arithmetic!
       Why the devil
           came you between us?
       I was hurt
           under your arm.
           I thought
              all for the best.
           Help me into some house,
              Or I shall faint.
       A plague
           a' both your houses!
       They have made
           worms' meat of me.
       I have it,
          And soundly too.
       Your houses!
       [Exeunt MERCUTIO
           and BENVOLIO.]
           This gentleman,
                the prince's near ally,
         My very friend,
            hath got this mortal hurt
                 In my behalf
           -- my reputation stained
                   With Tybalt's slander --
               that an hour
                   Hath been my cousin.
       O sweet Juliet,
          Thy beauty
               hath made me effeminate
             And in my temper
                  soft'ned valor's steel!
       [Enter BENVOLIO.]
           O Romeo, Romeo,
               brave Mercutio is dead!
       That gallant spirit
            hath aspired the clouds,
          Which too untimely
                here did scorn the earth.
           This day's black fate
               on more days
                   doth depend;
         This but
             begins the woe
                others must end.
       [Enter TYBALT.]
           Here comes
               the furious Tybalt
                   back again.
           Alive in triumph,
              and Mercutio slain?
       Away to heaven
            respective lenity,
          And fire-eyed fury
               be my conduct now!
          take the "villain" back again
               That late thou gavest me;
        for Mercutio's soul
            Is but a little way
                 above our heads,
          Staying for thine
              to keep him company.
       Either thou or I,
           or both,
         must go with him.
              wretched boy,
                    that didst consort him here,
                 Shalt with him hence.
           This shall determine that.
       [They fight. TYBALT falls.]
           Romeo, away,
               be gone!
       The citizens are up,
          and Tybalt slain.
       Stand not amazed.
       The prince
           will doom thee death
              If thou art taken.
          be gone, away!
           O, I am fortune's fool!
           Why dost thou stay?
       [Exit ROMEO.]
       [Enter CITIZENS.]
           Which way ran he
                that killed Mercutio?
           that murderer,
               which way ran he?
           There lies that Tybalt.
           Up, sir,
               go with me.
       I charge thee
           in the prince's name obey.
       [Enter PRINCE,
             old MONTAGUE, CAPULET,
          their WIVES, and all.]
           Where are the vile beginners
               of this fray?
           O noble prince,
                I can discover all
              The unlucky manage
                   of this fatal brawl.
       There lies the man,
            slain by young Romeo,
          That slew thy kinsman,
               brave Mercutio.
       Lady Capulet.
           Tybalt, my cousin!
       O my brother's child!
       O prince!
       O cousin!
          the blood is spilled
             Of my dear kinsman!
            as thou art true,
          For blood of ours
               shed blood of Montague.
       O cousin, cousin!
              who began
                  this bloody fray?
                here slain,
              whom Romeo's hand
                   did slay.
            that spoke him fair,
          bid him bethink
               How nice the quarrel was,
        and urged withal
            Your high displeasure.
       All this
          -- utterèd
                 With gentle breath,
               calm look,
                    knees humbly bowed --
          Could not take truce
              with the unruly spleen
                   Of Tybalt deaf to peace,
          but that he tilts
              With piercing steel
                  at bold Mercutio's breast;
             all as hot,
           turns deadly point
                to point,
             with a martial scorn,
           with one hand
                beats Cold death aside
          and with the other
             sends It back to Tybalt,
                whose dexterity Retorts it.
      Romeo he cries aloud,
           "Hold, friends!
                Friends, part!"
          and swifter
              than his tongue,
        His agile arm
            beats down
                 their fatal points,
              And 'twixt them rushes;
        underneath whose arm
            An envious thrust from Tybalt
                hit the life
                     Of stout Mercutio,
                  and then Tybalt fled;
        But by and by
            comes back to Romeo,
          Who had but newly
               entertained revenge,
        And to't
            they go like lightning;
          for, ere I Could
              draw to part them,
                   was stout Tybalt slain;
        And, as he fell,
            did Romeo turn and fly.
       This is the truth,
          or let Benvolio die.
       Lady Capulet.
           He is a kinsman
                to the Montague;
             Affection makes him false,
          he speaks not true.
       Some twenty of them
                in this black strife,
         And all those twenty
             could but kill one life.
       I beg for justice,
          which thou, prince,
              must give.
       Romeo slew Tybalt;
           Romeo must not live.
           Romeo slew him;
              he slew Mercutio.
       Who now
           the price of his dear blood
               doth owe?
           Not Romeo, prince;
                he was Mercutio's friend;
              His fault concludes
                  but what the law should end,
                      The life of Tybalt.
           And for that offense
                  we do exile him hence.
       I have an interest
            in your hate's proceeding,
          My blood
               for your rude brawls
                   doth lie a-bleeding;
        But I'll amerce you
             with so strong a fine
           That you shall all repent
                the loss of mine.
       I will be deaf
            to pleading and excuses;
          Nor tears nor prayers
               shall purchase out abuses.
       Therefore use none.
       Let Romeo hence in haste,
               when he is found,
          that hour is his last.
       Bear hence this body
           and attend our will.
       Mercy but murders,
          pardoning those that kill.
       [Exit with others.]
       Enter JULIET alone.
           Gallop apace,
                 you fiery-footed steeds,
              Towards Phoebus' lodging!
       Such a wagoner
          As Phaethon
              would whip you
                   to the west
         And bring in
            cloudy night immediately.
       Spread thy close curtain,
            love-performing night,
          That runaways' eyes may wink,
        and Romeo
             Leap to these arms
                 untalked of and unseen.
       Lovers can see to do
            their amorous rites,
                And by their own beauties;
            if love be blind,
                It best agrees with night.
            civil night,
          Thou sober-suited matron
               all in black,
        And learn me
            how to lose
               a winning match,
         Played for a pair
            of stainless maidenhoods.
       Hood my unmanned blood,
            bating in my cheeks,
          With thy black mantle
               till strange love grow bold,
        Think true love
           acted simple modesty.
       Come, night;
           come, Romeo;
             thou day in night;
           For thou wilt lie upon
               the wings of night
        Whiter than new snow
            upon a raven's back.
       Come, gentle night;
                 black-browed night;
         Give me my Romeo;
                when he shall die,
           Take him and
               cut him out in little stars,
        And he will make
             the face of heaven so fine
          That all the world
               will be in love with night
             And pay no worship
                  to the garish sun.
          I have bought
              the mansion of a love,
                  But not possessed it;
        and though I am sold,
           Not yet enjoyed.
       So tedious is this day
          As is the night
               before some festival
             To an impatient child
                 that hath new robes
                     And may not wear them.
          here comes my nurse,
       [Enter NURSE,
          with a ladder of cords.]
       And she brings news;
            and every tongue that speaks
          But Romeo's name
              speaks heavenly eloquence.
       Now, nurse,
          what news?
       What hast thou there,
           the cords
        That Romeo bid thee fetch?
           Ay, ay,
              the cords.
           Ay me!
       What news?
       Why dost thou
           wring thy hands?
           Ah, weraday!
       He's dead,
            he's dead,
          he's dead!
       We are undone,
         we are undone!
       Alack the day!
       He's gone,
          he's killed,
             he's dead!
           Can heaven
               be so envious?
           Romeo can,
               Though heaven cannot.
       O Romeo, Romeo!
       Who ever
           would have thought it?
           What devil art thou
               that dost torment me thus?
       This torture
           should be roared
               in dismal hell.
       Hath Romeo slain himself?
       Say thou but "Ay,"
          And that bare vowel "I"
               shall poison more
             Than the death-darting eye
                  of cockatrice.
       I am not I,
            if there be such an "Ay,"
         Or those eyes' shot
              that make thee answer "Ay."
       If he be slain,
           say "Ay";
              or if not, "No."
       Brief sounds
              of my weal or woe.
           I saw the wound,
                I saw it with mine eyes,
                    (God save the mark!)
              here on his manly breast.
       A piteous corse,
            a bloody piteous corse;
              pale as ashes,
                   all bedaubed in blood,
                 All in gore-blood.
       I swounded
           at the sight.
           O, break,
              my heart!
       Poor bankrout,
          break at once!
       To prison, eyes;
           ne'er look on liberty!
       Vile earth,
            to earth resign;
          end motion here,
              And thou and Romeo
                  press one heavy bier!
           O Tybalt, Tybalt,
               the best friend I had!
       O courteous Tybalt!
       Honest gentleman!
       That ever
          I should live
              to see thee dead!
           What storm is this
                that blows so contrary?
       Is Romeo slaught'red,
          and is Tybalt dead?
       My dearest cousin,
          and my dearer lord?
          dreadful trumpet,
              sound the general doom!
       For who is living,
          if those two are gone?
           Tybalt is gone,
               and Romeo banishèd;
        Romeo that killed him,
            he is banishèd.
           O God!
       Did Romeo's hand
           shed Tybalt's blood?
           It did, it did!
       Alas the day,
          it did!
           O serpent heart,
               hid with a flow'ring face!
       Did ever dragon
           keep so fair a cave?
       Beautiful tyrant!
       Fiend angelical!
       Dove-feathered raven!
       Wolvish-ravening lamb!
       Despisèd substance
            of divinest show!
       Just opposite
             to what thou justly seem'st
        -- A damnèd saint,
                an honorable villain!
       O nature,
            what hadst thou
                 to do in hell
        When thou didst bower
             the spirit of a fiend
           In mortal paradise
                of such sweet flesh?
       Was ever book
           containing such vile matter
               So fairly bound?
          that deceit should dwell
              In such a gorgeous palace!
           There's no trust,
         No faith,
              no honesty in men;
            all perjured,
                All forsworn,
        all naught,
          all dissemblers.
          where's my man?
       Give me some aqua vitae.
       These griefs,
            these woes,
          these sorrows make me old.
       Shame come to Romeo!
           Blistered be thy tongue
               For such a wish!
       He was not born
           to shame.
       Upon his brow
            shame is ashamed to sit;
          For 'tis a throne
               where honor
                     may be crowned
             Sole monarch
                of the universal earth.
          what a beast was I
              to chide at him!
           Will you
               speak well of him
                   that killed your cousin?
           Shall I speak ill of him
               that is my husband?
            poor my lord,
          what tongue
               shall smooth thy name
        When I,
            thy three-hours wife,
                have mangled it?
       But wherefore,
          didst thou kill my cousin?
       That villain cousin
           would have killed my husband.
            foolish tears,
          back to your native spring!
       Your tributary drops
            belong to woe,
          Which you,
                   offer up to joy.
       My husband lives,
            that Tybalt would have slain;
          And Tybalt's dead,
               that would have slain
                    my husband.
       All this is comfort;
           wherefore weep I then?
       Some word there was,
            worser than Tybalt's death,
          That murd'red me.
       I would forget it fain;
           But O,
                it presses to my memory
              Like damnèd guilty deeds
                    to sinners' minds!
       "Tybalt is dead,
            and Romeo
             -- banishèd."
       That "banishèd,"
             that one word "banishèd,"
           Hath slain
                ten thousand Tybalts.
       Tybalt's death
            Was woe enough,
                if it had ended there;
           if sour woe
               delights in fellowship
             And needly
                 will be ranked
                    with other griefs,
        Why followed not,
            when she said
         "Tybalt's dead,"
              Thy father,
                 or thy mother,
               or both,
        Which modern lamentation
           might have moved?
       But with a rearward
             following Tybalt's death,
         "Romeo is banishèd"
            -- to speak that word
                   Is father,
           All slain,
               all dead.
       "Romeo is banishèd"
        -- There is no end,
                no limit,
             In that word's death;
        no words
           can that woe sound.
       Where is my father
            and my mother, nurse?
           Weeping and wailing
               over Tybalt's corse.
       Will you go to them?
       I will bring you thither.
           Wash they his wounds
                  with tears:
           mine shall be spent,
              When theirs are dry,
            for Romeo's banishment.
            Take up those cords:
                poor ropes,
                   you are beguiled,
                 Both you and I;
                for Romeo is exiled:
                   He made you
                       for a highway
                           to my bed;
                But I,
                   a maid,
                 die maiden-widowed.
                I'll to my wedding-bed;
                   And death,
                   not Romeo,
                 take my maidenhead!
           Hie to your chamber:
              I'll find Romeo To comfort you:
           I wot well
                where he is.
            Hark ye,
                   your Romeo
                    will be here at night:
                I'll to him;
                   he is
                    hid at Laurence' cell.
              find him!
            give this ring
                  to my true knight,
              And bid him
                 come to take
                      his last farewell.
               come forth;
             come forth,
                  thou fearful man.
           is enamored of thy parts,
         And thou
              art wedded to calamity.
       [Enter ROMEO.]
           Father, what news?
       What is the prince's doom?
       What sorrow
           craves acquaintance
               at my hand
          That I yet know not?
           Too familiar
               Is my dear son
                   with such sour company.
       I bring thee tidings
           of the prince's doom.
           What less than doomsday
               is the prince's doom?
           A gentler judgment
               vanished from his lips
         -- Not body's death,
                 but body's banishment.
           Ha, banishment?
       Be merciful,
            say "death";
          For exile
              hath more terror in his look,
                   Much more than death.
       Do not say
           Here from Verona
              art thou banishèd.
       Be patient,
          for the world
             is broad and wide.
           There is no world
                without Verona walls,
              But purgatory,
             hell itself.
       Hence banishèd
            is banished from the world,
          And world's exile
               is death.
       Then "banishèd"
           Is death mistermed.
       Calling death
          Thou cut'st my head off
               with a golden ax
             And smilest upon the stroke
                  that murders me.
           O deadly sin!
       O rude unthankfulness!
       Thy fault
            our law calls death;
          but the kind prince,
               Taking thy part,
             hath rushed aside the law,
        And turned
           that black word "death"
               to "banishment."
       This is dear mercy,
          and thou see'st it not.
          'Tis torture,
              and not mercy.
       Heaven is here,
            Where Juliet lives;
          and every cat and dog
               And little mouse,
                   every unworthy thing,
            Live here in heaven
                and may look on her;
         But Romeo may not.
       More validity,
          More honorable state,
        more courtship lives
            In carrion flies than Romeo.
       They may seize
            On the white wonder
                of dear Juliet's hand
          And steal immortal blessing
              from her lips,
            even in pure
               and vestal modesty,
          Still blush,
              as thinking
                  their own kisses sin;
        But Romeo may not,
           he is banishèd.
       Flies may do this
            but I from this must fly;
          They are freemen,
               but I am banishèd.
       And sayest thou yet
          that exile is not death?
       Hadst thou no poison mixed,
            no sharp-ground knife,
          No sudden mean of death,
               though ne'er so mean,
        But "banishèd"
            to kill me
           -- "banishèd"?
       O friar,
          the damnèd
               use that word in hell;
             Howling attends it!
       How hast thou the heart,
            Being a divine,
                 a ghostly confessor,
              A sin-absolver,
          and my friend professed,
        To mangle me
           with that word
           Thou fond mad man,
               hear me a little speak.
              thou wilt speak again
                 of banishment.
           I'll give thee armor
               to keep off that word;
        Adversity's sweet milk,
          To comfort thee,
              though thou art banishèd.
           Yet "banishèd"?
       Hang up philosophy!
       Unless philosophy
           can make a Juliet,
               Displant a town,
         reverse a prince's doom,
            It helps not,
                it prevails not.
       Talk no more.
           O, then I see
              that madmen
                  have no ears.
           How should they,
               when that wise men
                  have no eyes?
           Let me
              dispute with thee
                 of thy estate.
           Thou canst not
               speak of that
                   thou dost not feel.
       Wert thou as young as I,
            Juliet thy love,
                  An hour but married,
               Tybalt murderèd,
          Doting like me,
             and like me banishèd,
        Then mightst thou speak,
            then mightst thou
                tear thy hair,
          And fall upon the ground,
               as I do now,
            Taking the measure
                 of an unmade grave.
       [The NURSE knocks.]
           Arise, one knocks.
       Good Romeo,
          hide thyself.
           Not I;
              unless the breath
                  of heartsick groans
           Mistlike infold me
               from the search of eyes.
           Hark, how they knock!
       Who's there?
       Romeo, arise;
          Thou wilt be taken.
       --Stay awhile!--
       Stand up;
       Run to my study.
       --By and by!--
       God's will,
           What simpleness is this.
       --I come,
              I come!
       Who knocks so hard?
       Whence come you?
       What's your will?
       [Enter NURSE.]
           Let me come in,
         and you
             shall know my errand.
       I come from Lady Juliet.
           Welcome then.
           O holy friar,
               O, tell me, holy friar,
        Where is
            my lady's lord,
                where's Romeo?
           There on the ground,
               with his own tears
                   made drunk.
           O, he is even
                in my mistress' case,
             Just in her case!
       O woeful sympathy!
       Piteous predicament!
       Even so lies she,
          Blubb'ring and weeping,
              weeping and blubb'ring.
       Stand up,
          stand up!
          and you be a man.
       For Juliet's sake,
          for her sake,
             rise and stand!
       Why should you fall
           into so deep an O?
           Ah sir, ah sir!
       Death's the end of all.
           Spakest thou of Juliet?
       How is it with her?
       Doth not she think me
             an old murderer,
          Now I have stained
                the childhood of our joy
             With blood removed
                  but little from her own?
       Where is she?
       And how doth she?
       And what says
          My concealed lady
            to our canceled love?
             she says nothing, sir,
                  but weeps and weeps;
        And now falls on her bed,
            and then starts up,
                And Tybalt calls;
          and then on Romeo cries,
             And then down falls again.
           As if that name,
               Shot from
                    the deadly level of a gun,
             Did murder her;
        as that name's cursèd hand
           Murdered her kinsman.
       O, tell me, friar,
          tell me,
              In what vile part
                   of this anatomy
                 Doth my name lodge?
       Tell me,
          that I may sack
             The hateful mansion.
       [He offers to stab himself,
           and NURSE
              snatches the dagger away.]
           Hold thy desperate hand.
       Art thou a man?
       Thy form cries out thou art;
            Thy tears are womanish,
          thy wild acts denote
              The unreasonable fury
                  of a beast.
       Unseemly woman
           in a seeming man!
       And ill-beseeming beast
           in seeming both!
       Thou hast amazed me.
       By my holy order,
          I thought
              thy disposition
                  better tempered.
       Hast thou slain Tybalt?
       Wilt thou slay thyself?
       And slay thy lady
            that in thy life lives,
          By doing damnèd hate
              upon thyself?
       Why rail'st thou
            on thy birth,
          the heaven,
               and earth?
       Since birth
           and heaven and earth,
         all three
             do meet In thee
                 at once;
           which thou at once
               wouldst lose.
       Fie, fie,
          thou sham'st thy shape,
               thy love,
             thy wit,
            like a usurer,
                abound'st in all,
          And usest none
              in that true use indeed
                  Which should bedeck
                        thy shape,
                    thy love,
                thy wit.
       Thy noble shape
            is but a form of wax,
          Digressing from the valor
               of a man;
        Thy dear love sworn
             but hollow perjury,
           Killing that love which
                thou hast vowed to cherish;
        Thy wit,
             that ornament
                 to shape and love,
               in the conduct
                   of them both,
         Like powder
              in a skill-less soldier's flask,
            Is set afire
                 by thine own ignorance,
        And thou dismembered
            with thine own defense.
          rouse thee, man!
       Thy Juliet is alive,
          For whose dear sake
            thou wast
                but lately dead.
       There art thou happy.
       Tybalt would kill thee,
          But thou slewest Tybalt.
       There art thou happy.
       The law,
            that threatened death,
          becomes thy friend
               And turns it to exile.
       There art thou happy.
       A pack of blessings
            light upon thy back;
              courts thee
                 in her best array;
            like a misbehaved
                and sullen wench,
          Thou pouts
              upon thy fortune
                  and thy love.
       Take heed,
            take heed,
          for such die miserable.
       Go get thee to thy love,
            as was decreed,
          Ascend her chamber,
               hence and comfort her.
       But look thou
           stay not
              till the watch be set,
        For then
            thou canst not pass
                to Mantua,
          Where thou shalt live
              till we can find a time
                 To blaze your marriage,
             reconcile your friends,
        Beg pardon of the prince,
           and call thee back
               With twenty hundred
                    thousand times more joy
            Than thou went'st forth
                in lamentation.
       Go before,
       Commend me to thy lady,
          And bid her hasten
               all the house to bed,
            Which heavy sorrow
                 makes them apt unto.
       Romeo is coming.
           O Lord,
               I could have stayed here
                    all the night
                  To hear good counsel.
          what learning is!
       My lord,
          I'll tell my lady
              you will come.
           Do so,
         and bid my sweet
             prepare to chide.
       [NURSE offers to go in
            and turns again.]
           Here, sir,
               a ring she bid me
                   give you, sir.
       Hie you,
          make haste,
        for it grows very late.
           How well my comfort
               is revived by this!
           Go hence;
                good night;
              and here stands
                   all your state:
        Either be gone
             before the watch be set,
          Or by the break of day
               disguised from hence.
       Sojourn in Mantua.
       I'll find out your man,
          And he shall signify
               from time to time
             Every good hap to you
                  that chances here.
       Give me thy hand.
       'Tis late.
          good night.
           But that a joy past joy
               calls out on me,
        It were a grief so brief
            to part with thee.
       Enter old CAPULET,
          his wife,
             and PARIS.
           Things have fallen out, sir,
         so unluckily
             That we have had no time
                  to move our daughter.
       Look you,
          she loved
               her kinsman Tybalt dearly,
             And so did I.
          we were born to die.
       'Tis very late;
           she'll not come down tonight.
       I promise you,
            but for your company,
          I would have been abed
               an hour ago.
           These times of woe
               afford no times to woo.
          good night.
       Commend me
           to your daughter.
       Lady Capulet.
           I will,
              and know her mind
                   early tomorrow;
           she's mewed up
               to her heaviness.
           Sir Paris,
               I will make
                   a desperate tender
                       Of my child's love.
       I think
            she will be ruled
                In all respects by me;
         nay more,
            I doubt it not.
           go you to her
               ere you go to bed;
             Acquaint her here
                   of my son Paris' love
        And bid her
           (mark you me?)
               on Wednesday next--
       But soft!
          What day is this?
           Monday, my lord.
       Ha, ha!
               is too soon.
       A' Thursday let it be
        -- a' Thursday,
                 tell her,
              She shall be married
                    to this noble earl.
       Will you be ready?
       Do you like this haste?
       We'll keep no great ado
        -- a friend or two;
              For hark you,
                  Tybalt being slain so late,
          It may be thought
              we held him carelessly,
                    Being our kinsman,
                 if we revel much.
           we'll have some
                 half a dozen friends,
              And there an end.
       But what say you
           to Thursday?
           My lord,
               I would that Thursday
                   were tomorrow.
           Well, get you gone.
       A' Thursday be it then.
       Go you to Juliet
            ere you go to bed;
          Prepare her, wife,
               against this wedding day.
          my lord.
       --Light to my chamber, ho!
       Afore me,
            it is so very late
         That we
              may call it early
                   by and by.
       Good night.
       Enter ROMEO and JULIET aloft.
           Wilt thou be gone?
       It is not yet near day.
       It was the nightingale,
          and not the lark,
        That pierced the fearful hollow
            of thine ear.
       Nightly she
           sings on yond pomegranate tree.
       Believe me,
        it was the nightingale.
           It was the lark,
          the herald
            of the morn;
           No nightingale.
        what envious streaks
          Do lace
             the severing clouds in
              yonder east.
       Night's candles are burnt out,
          and jocund day
              tiptoe on the misty mountaintops.
       I must be gone
            and live,
          or stay and die.
           Yond light
               is not daylight;
           I know it,
       It is some meteor
            that the sun exhales
          To be
             to thee this night
              a torchbearer
        And light thee
            on thy way to Mantua.
       Therefore stay yet;
           thou need'st not
               to be gone.
           Let me be taken,
          let me
             be put to death.
       I am content,
          so thou
           wilt have it so.
       I'll say yon gray
           is not the morning's eye,
            'Tis but
                the pale reflex
                    of Cynthia's brow;
               Nor that is not
                    the lark whose notes
                     do beat
          The vaulty heaven
            so high above our heads.
       I have more care
           to stay than
              will to go.
        and welcome!
       Juliet wills it so.
       How is't,
          my soul?
       Let's talk;
           it is not day.
           It is,
          it is!
       Hie hence,
          be gone,
       It is the lark
            that sings
                so out of tune,
          Straining harsh discords
            and unpleasing sharps.
       Some say the lark
           makes sweet division;
              This doth not so,
          for she divideth us.
       Some say the lark
            and loathèd toad change eyes;
          now I would
            they had changed voices too,
          Since arm from arm
            that voice doth us affray,
          Hunting thee
            hence with hunt's-up to the day.
          now be gone!
       More light
             and light it grows.
           More light and light
           -- more dark
                  and dark our woes.
       [Enter NURSE.]
           Your lady mother
               is coming to your chamber.
       The day is broke;
           be wary,
              look about.
           Then, window,
               let day in,
                   and let life out.
       One kiss,
          and I'll descend.
       [He goes down.]
           Art thou gone so,
             ay husband-friend?
       I must hear
           from thee every day
                in the hour,
              For in a minute
                   there are many days.
          for this count
               I shall be much in years
            Ere I again
                  behold my Romeo!
       I will omit no opportunity
           That may convey
                my greetings,
                  to thee.
           O, think'st thou
               we shall ever meet again?
           I doubt it not;
         and all these woes
              shall serve
                   For sweet discourses
                 in our times to come.
           O God,
              I have an ill-divining soul!
       Methinks I see thee,
            now thou art so low,
          As one dead
               in the bottom of a tomb.
       Either my eyesight fails,
          or thou look'st pale.
           And trust me, love,
               in my eye so do you.
       Dry sorrow
           drinks our blood.
       Adieu, adieu!
       O Fortune,
       All men call thee fickle.
       If thou art fickle,
          what dost thou with him
              That is renowned for faith?
       Be fickle,
          For then I hope
              thou wilt not
                    keep him long
                 But send him back.
       [Enter Juliet's mother,
          LADY CAPULET.]
       Lady Capulet.
           Ho, daughter!
       Are you up?
           Who is't that calls?
       It is my lady mother.
       Is she not down so late,
          or up so early?
       What unaccustomed cause
           procures her hither?
       Lady Capulet.
              how now, Juliet?
               I am not well.
       Lady Capulet.
           Evermore weeping
              for your cousin's death?
           wilt thou wash him
              from his grave with tears?
       And if thou couldst,
          thou couldst
              not make him live.
       Therefore have done.
       Some grief
            shows much of love;
          But much of grief
               shows still
                    some want of wit.
           Yet let me weep
               for such a feeling loss.
       Lady Capulet.
           So shall you feel the loss,
               but not the friend
                   Which you weep for.
           Feeling so the loss,
               I cannot choose
                   but ever weep the friend.
       Lady Capulet.
           Well, girl,
                thou weep'st not so much
                     for his death
          As that
              the villain lives
                   which slaughtered him.
           What villain, madam?
       Lady Capulet.
           That same villain Romeo.
              Villain and he
                   be many miles asunder
             -- God pardon him!
       I do,
            with all my heart;
          And yet no man like he
               doth grieve my heart.
       Lady Capulet.
           That is because
                the traitor murderer lives.
           Ay, madam,
               from the reach
                   of these my hands.
       Would none
            but I might venge
                my cousin's death!
       Lady Capulet.
           We will have vengeance for it,
                fear thou not.
       Then weep no more.
       I'll send to one in Mantua,
           Where that same
               banished runagate
                   doth live,
         Shall give him such an
              unaccustomed dram
           That he shall soon
                keep Tybalt company;
        And then I hope
            thou wilt be satisfied.
           Indeed I never
               shall be satisfied With Romeo
             till I behold him
                -- dead --
          Is my poor heart
              so for a kinsman vexed.
           if you could find out
               but a man
                   To bear a poison,
         I would temper it
         -- That Romeo should,
                  upon receipt thereof,
               Soon sleep in quiet.
          how my heart abhors
               To hear him named
                    and cannot come to him,
            To wreak the love
                  I bore my cousin
               Upon his body
                     that hath slaughtered him!
       Lady Capulet.
           Find thou the means,
                and I'll find such a man.
       But now
           I'll tell thee joyful tidings,
           And joy comes well
                in such a needy time.
       What are they,
            I beseech your ladyship?
       Lady Capulet.
           Well, well,
                thou hast
                    a careful father, child;
         One who,
              to put thee
                   from thy heaviness,
            Hath sorted out
                a sudden day of joy
                     That thou expects not
                   nor I looked not for.
               in happy time!
       What day is that?
       Lady Capulet.
                my child,
              early next Thursday morn
        The gallant,
                and noble gentleman,
                     The County Paris,
          at Saint Peter's Church,
              Shall happily make thee there
                   a joyful bride.
           Now by Saint Peter's Church,
                and Peter too,
             He shall not make me there
                   a joyful bride!
       I wonder at this haste,
            that I must wed
          Ere he
               that should be husband
                    comes to woo.
       I pray you
           tell my lord and father,
              I will not marry yet;
        and when I do,
            I swear
                It shall be Romeo,
                      whom you know I hate,
                   Rather than Paris.
       These are news indeed!
       Lady Capulet.
           Here comes your father.
       Tell him so yourself,
          And see
              how he will take it
                   at your hands.
       [Enter CAPULET and NURSE.]
           When the sun sets
                the earth doth drizzle dew,
              But for the sunset
                  of my brother's son
                      It rains downright.
       How now?
       A conduit, girl?
          still in tears?
       Evermore showering?
       In one little body
          Thou counterfeits a bark,
               a sea,
                   a wind:
        For still thy eyes,
            which I may call the sea,
                 Do ebb and flow with tears;
          the bark thy body is,
              Sailing in this salt flood;
        the winds,
            thy sighs, Who,
                raging with thy tears
                      and they with them,
          Without a sudden calm
              will overset
                   Thy tempest-tossèd body.
       How now, wife?
       Have you
           delivered to her
                our decree?
       Lady Capulet.
           Ay, sir;
              but she will none,
                   she gives you thanks.
       I would the fool
           were married to her grave!
       Take me with you,
           take me with you, wife.
       Will she none?
       Doth she
           not give us thanks?
       Is she not proud?
       Doth she
            not count her blest,
                Unworthy as she is,
        that we have wrought
            So worthy a gentleman
                  to be her bride?
           Not proud you have,
               but thankful that you have.
       Proud can I never be
            of what I hate,
         But thankful even for hate
               that is meant love.
       What is this?
       "Proud" --
            and "I thank you" --
                 and "I thank you not" --
          And yet "not proud"?
       Mistress minion you,
          Thank me no thankings,
               nor proud me no prouds,
        But fettle your fine joints
            'gainst Thursday next
          To go with Paris
                to Saint Peter's Church,
        Or I will drag thee
            on a hurdle thither.
          you greensickness carrion!
          you baggage!
       You tallow-face!
       Lady Capulet.
           Fie, fie!
          are you mad?
           Good father,
               I beseech you
                   on my knees,
        Hear me with patience
            but to speak a word.
           Hang thee,
               young baggage!
       Disobedient wretch!
       I tell thee what
         -- get thee
                 to church a' Thursday
               Or never after
                   look me in the face.
       Speak not,
            reply not,
         do not answer me!
       My fingers itch.
          we scarce thought us blest
              That God had lent us
                   but this only child;
         But now I see
             this one
                 is one too much,
           And that
              we have a curse
                   in having her.
       Out on her,
           God in heaven bless her!
       You are to blame,
            my lord,
          to rate her so.
           And why,
               my Lady Wisdom?
       Hold your tongue,
          Good Prudence.
           with your gossips, go!
           I speak no treason.
           O, God-i-god-en!
           May not one speak?
               you mumbling fool!
       Utter your gravity
             o'er a gossip's bowl,
          For here we need it not.
       Lady Capulet.
           You are too hot.
           God's bread!
       It makes me mad.
       Day, night;
            hour, tide, time;
          work, play;
               Alone, in company;
        still my care
            hath been
                To have her matched;
          and having now provided
               A gentleman of noble parentage,
            Of fair demesnes,
                      and nobly trained,
                  as they say,
                     with honorable parts,
               as one's thought
                   would wish a man
        -- And then to have
                a wretched puling fool,
              A whining mammet,
                   in her fortune's tender,
          To answer
              "I'll not wed,
                    I cannot love;
                 I am too young,
                        I pray you pardon me"!
            and you will not wed,
          I'll pardon you!
       Graze where you will,
          you shall not
             house with me.
       Look to't,
          think on't;
             I do not use to jest.
       Thursday is near;
           lay hand on heart,
       And you be mine,
            I'll give you to my friend;
         And you be not,
                   die in the streets,
               by my soul,
                   I'll ne'er acknowledge thee,
        Nor what is mine
            shall never do thee good.
       Trust to't.
       Bethink you.
       I'll not be forsworn.
           Is there no pity
                sitting in the clouds
             That sees
                  into the bottom
                      of my grief?
       O sweet my mother,
          cast me not away!
       Delay this marriage
            for a month, a week;
         Or if you do not,
              make the bridal bed
                    In that dim monument
                 where Tybalt lies.
       Lady Capulet.
           Talk not to me,
               for I'll not speak a word.
       Do as thou wilt,
          for I have done with thee.
           O God!
           -- O nurse,
                  how shall this
                      be prevented?
       My husband is on earth,
          my faith in heaven.
       How shall that faith
            return again to earth
          Unless that husband
               send it me from heaven
                   By leaving earth?
       Comfort me,
          counsel me.
       Alack, alack,
           that heaven
                should practice stratagems
              Upon so soft a subject
                     as myself!
       What say'st thou?
       Hast thou not
           a word of joy?
       Some comfort, nurse.
               here it is.
       Romeo is banished;
           and all the world
                to nothing
              That he dares
                   ne'er come back
                       to challenge you;
          Or if he do,
             it needs must be
                 by stealth.
            since the case
               so stands
                   as now it doth,
          I think it best
              you married
                  with the county.
          he's a lovely
           a dishclout to him.
       An eagle,
         Hath not so green,
               so quick,
            so fair an eye
                 As Paris hath.
       Beshrew my very heart,
          I think
              you are happy
                  in this second match,
            For it excels your first;
        or if it did not,
          Your first is dead
          -- or 'twere
                  as good he were
               As living here
                    and you no use of him.
           Speak'st thou
               from thy heart?
           And from my soul too;
              else beshrew them both.
         thou hast comforted me
              marvelous much.
       Go in;
           and tell my lady
                I am gone,
                 displeased my father,
        to Laurence' cell,
          To make confession
              and to be absolved.
           Marry, I will;
               and this is wisely done.
           Ancient damnation!
       O most wicked fiend!
       Is it more sin
           to wish me
               thus forsworn,
        Or to dispraise my lord
            with that same tongue
          Which she
               hath praised him with
                    above compare
             So many thousand times?
       Go, counselor!
       Thou and my bosom
           henceforth shall be twain.
       I'll to the friar
           to know his remedy.
       If all else fail,
             have power to die.
            and COUNT PARIS.
           On Thursday, sir?
       The time
           is very short.
           My father Capulet
               will have it so,
        And I am nothing slow
           to slack his haste.
           You say
              you do not know
                 the lady's mind.
            is the course;
          I like it not.
              she weeps
                  for Tybalt's death,
          And therefore
              have I little
                   talked of love;
        For Venus
            smiles not
               in a house of tears.
       Now, sir,
          her father
               counts it dangerous
             That she
                  do give her sorrow
                      so much sway,
          And in his wisdom
              hastes our marriage
                  To stop the inundation
                       of her tears,
            too much minded
                 by herself alone,
        May be put from her
            by society.
       Now do you know
           the reason of this haste.
              I would I knew not
                   why it should be slowed,
        -- Look, sir,
               here comes the lady
                    toward my cell.
       [Enter JULIET.]
           Happily met,
               my lady and my wife!
           That may be, sir,
         when I
              may be a wife.
          That "may be" must be,
             on Thursday next.
           What must be
               shall be.
           That's a certain text.
           Come you
               to make confession
                    to this father?
           To answer that,
                I should confess to you.
           Do not deny to him
              that you love me.
           I will confess to you
               that I love him.
           So will ye,
                I am sure,
              that you love me.
           If I do so,
                it will be of more price,
              Being spoke
                    behind your back,
                 than to your face.
           Poor soul,
               thy face is much abused
                    with tears.
           The tears have got
                small victory by that,
             For it was bad enough
                  before their spite.
           Thou wrong'st it more
               than tears
                  with that report.
           That is no slander, sir,
                which is a truth;
         And what I spake,
             I spake it to my face.
           Thy face is mine,
               and thou hast slandered it.
           It may be so,
               for it is not mine own.
       Are you at leisure,
            holy father, now,
          Or shall
              I come to you
                 at evening mass?
           My leisure serves me,
              pensive daughter, now.
       My lord,
          we must entreat
              the time alone.
           God shield
              I should disturb devotion!
          on Thursday early
             will I rouse ye.
       Till then, adieu,
           and keep this holy kiss.
           O, shut the door,
              and when
                 thou hast done so,
         Come weep with me
          -- past hope,
           past care,
                past help!
           O Juliet,
               I already know thy grief;
         It strains me
             past the compass
                 of my wits.
       I hear thou must,
            and nothing
               may prorogue it,
        On Thursday next
            be married to this country.
           Tell me not, friar,
               that thou hearest of this,
        Unless thou tell me
            how I may prevent it.
       If in thy wisdom
            thou canst give no help,
          Do thou but call
               my resolution wise
        And with this knife
            I'll help it presently.
       God joined my heart
            and Romeo's,
               thou our hands;
        And ere this hand,
             by thee to Romeo's sealed,
           Shall be the label
                 to another deed,
        Or my true heart
            with treacherous revolt
                 Turn to another,
          this shall slay them both.
            out of thy
                long-experienced time,
          Give me
              some present counsel;
              'Twixt my extremes
                    and me this bloody knife
                  Shall play the umpire,
          arbitrating that
             Which the commission
                  of thy years and art
                Could to no issue
                     of true honor bring.
       Be not so long
           to speak.
       I long to die
           If what thou speak'st
               speak not of remedy.
           Hold, daughter.
       I do spy
            a kind of hope,
          Which craves
                as desperate an execution
             As that is desperate
                  which we would prevent.
          rather than
               to marry County Paris,
        Thou hast
            the strength of will
                to slay thyself,
         Then is it likely
            thou wilt undertake
               A thing like death
                   to chide away this shame,
          That cop'st
              with death himself
                  to scape from it;
           if thou darest,
              I'll give thee remedy.
           O, bid me leap,
                rather than marry Paris,
              From off the battlements
                   of any tower,
          Or walk in thievish ways,
              or bid me lurk
                  Where serpents are;
        chain me
             with roaring bears,
           Or hide me nightly
                in a charnel house,
             O'ercovered quite
                   with dead men's rattling bones,
              With reeky shanks
           and yellow chapless skulls;
        Or bid me go
             into a new-made grave
           And hide me
               with a dead man
                   in his shroud
        -- Things that,
               to hear them told,
                  have made me tremble --
           And I will do it
                without fear or doubt,
              To live an unstained wife
                   to my sweet love.
           Hold, then.
       Go home,
            be merry,
          give consent
              To marry Paris.
           is tomorrow.
       Tomorrow night
            look that thou lie alone;
          Let not the nurse
              lie with thee
                  in thy chamber.
       Take thou this vial,
            being then in bed,
          And this distilling liquor
               drink thou off;
        When presently
             through all thy veins
           shall run A cold
                and drowsy humor;
         for no pulse
            Shall keep
                his native progress,
                    but surcease;
        No warmth,
            no breath,
                shall testify thou livest;
        The roses
            in thy lips and cheeks
               shall fade
                   To wanny ashes,
          thy eyes' windows
              fall Like death
                 when he shuts up
                     the day of life;
        Each part,
               of supple government,
               stiff and stark and cold,
             appear like death;
        And in this
            borrowed likeness
                of shrunk death
          Thou shalt continue
              two-and-forty hours,
        And then awake
           as from a pleasant sleep.
          when the bridegroom
               in the morning comes
             To rouse thee
                 from thy bed,
           there art thou dead.
            as the manner
                of our country is,
        In thy best robes
            uncovered on the bier
          Thou shalt be borne
                to that same ancient vault
             Where all the kindred
                  of the Capulets lie.
       In the meantime,
            against thou shalt awake,
          Shall Romeo
              by my letters
                  know our drift;
        And hither shall he come;
            and he and I
                Will watch thy waking,
          and that very night
             Shall Romeo
                bear thee hence to Mantua.
       And this
            shall free thee
               from this present shame,
         If no inconstant toy
              nor womanish fear
            Abate thy valor
                 in the acting it.
           Give me,
              give me!
          tell not me of fear!
               Get you gone,
             be strong and prosperous
                  In this resolve.
       I'll send a friar
            with speed To Mantua,
          with my letters to thy lord.
           Love give me strength,
               and strength shall help afford.
          dear father.
       [Exit with FRIAR.]
       Enter father CAPULET,
           LADY CAPULET,
             and SERVINGMEN,
                two or three.
           So many guests invite
               as here are writ.
       [Exit a SERVINGMAN.]
          go hire me
              twenty cunning cooks.
           You shall
                have none ill, sir;
              for I'll try if they
                   can lick their fingers.
           How canst thou
               try them so?
           Go, be gone.
       [Exit SERVINGMAN.]
       We shall be
           much unfurnished
               for this time.
          is my daughter gone
              to Friar Laurence?
           Ay, forsooth.
               he may chance
                  to do some good on her.
       A peevish
          self-willed harlotry it is.
       [Enter JULIET.]
           See where she comes
              from shrift with merry look.
           How now,
               my headstrong?
       Where have you
            been gadding?
           Where I have learnt me
                 to repent the sin
              Of disobedient opposition
                    To you and your behests,
          and am enjoined
              By holy Laurence
            to fall prostrate here
                 To beg your pardon.
          I beseech you!
           I am ever ruled by you.
           Send for the county.
       Go tell him of this.
       I'll have this knot
           knit up
              tomorrow morning.
           I met the youthful lord
               at Laurence' cell
             And gave him
                  what becomèd love
                      I might,
          Not stepping o'er
             the bounds of modesty.
              I am glad on't.
       This is well.
       Stand up.
       This is as't should be.
       Let me see the county.
       Ay, marry,
              I say,
            and fetch him hither.
            afore God,
          this reverend holy friar,
              All our whole city
                 is much bound to him.
               will you go with me
                   into my closet,
          To help me sort
              such needful ornaments
        As you think fit
           to furnish me tomorrow?
       Lady Capulet.
           No, not till Thursday.
       There is time enough.
           Go, nurse,
               go with her.
       We'll to church tomorrow.
       [Exeunt JULIET and NURSE.]
       Lady Capulet.
           We shall be short
              in our provision.
       'Tis now near night.
                I will stir about,
              And all things
                   shall be well,
                 I warrant thee, wife.
       Go thou to Juliet,
          help to deck up her.
       I'll not to bed tonight;
           let me alone.
       I'll play the housewife
            for this once.
       What, ho!
       They are all forth;
               I will walk myself
                   To County Paris,
         to prepare up him
             Against tomorrow.
       My heart is wondrous light,
          Since this same wayward girl
              is so reclaimed.
       Enter JULIET and NURSE.
               those attires are best;
             gentle nurse,
           I pray thee
                leave me to myself tonight;
        For I have need
             of many orisons
          To move the heavens
                to smile upon my state,
              well thou knowest,
                  is cross and full of sin.
       [Enter LADY CAPULET.]
           No, madam;
              we have culled such necessaries
                  As are behoveful
                      for our state tomorrow.
       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.
       Lady Capulet.
           Good night.
       Get thee to bed,
             and rest;
           for thou hast need.
       [Exeunt LADY CAPULET
            and NURSE.]
       God knows
           when we shall meet again.
       I have a faint cold fear
            thrills through my veins
          That almost freezes up
               the heat of life.
       I'll call them back again
           to comfort me.
        -- What should
                she do here?
       My dismal scene
            I needs must act alone.
       Come, vial.
       What if this mixture
            do not work at all?
       Shall I be married then
           tomorrow morning?
       No, no!
       This shall forbid it.
       Lie thou there.
       [Lays down a dagger.]
       What if it be a poison
           which the friar
               Subtly hath ministered
                    to have me dead,
          Lest in this marriage
               he should be dishonored
             Because he married me
                  before to Romeo?
       I fear it is;
           and yet methinks
               it should not,
          For he
             hath still been tried
                a holy man.
       How if,
          when I am laid
               into the tomb,
        I wake
            before the time
                that Romeo
                    Come to redeem me?
       There's a fearful point!
       Shall I not then
            be stifled in the vault,
          To whose foul mouth
               no healthsome air breathes in,
        And there die
               ere my Romeo comes?
            if I live,
          is it not very like
             The horrible conceit
                  of death and night,
                Together with
                     the terror of the place
         -- As in a vault,
               an ancient receptacle
         Where for this
              many hundred years
            the bones
                Of all my buried ancestors
                    are packed;
        Where bloody Tybalt,
              yet but green in earth,
           Lies fest'ring in his shroud;
              as they say,
           At some hours in the night
               spirits resort--
       Alack, alack,
          is it not like that I,
               So early waking
         -- what with loathsome smells,
                  And shrieks like mandrakes
                      torn out of the earth,
               That living mortals,
                   hearing them,
                       run mad --
         I, if I wake,
             shall I not be distraught,
           Environèd with
                all these hideous fears,
        And madly play
             with my forefathers' joints,
          And pluck the mangled Tybalt
                from his shroud,
           in this rage,
                with some great kinsman's bone
              As with a club
                  dash out my desp'rate brains?
       O, look!
       Methinks I see
            my cousin's ghost
                 Seeking out Romeo,
              that did spit his body
                    Upon a rapier's point.
             I drink to thee.
       [She falls upon her bed
            within the curtains.]
A A