All language subtitles for Romeo & Juliet (Alvin Rakoff, 1978)

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-cross'd lovers take their life;

Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows
Doth with their death bury their parents' strife.

The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,
And the continuance of their parents' rage,

Which but their children's end
naught 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.

Gregory, on my word, we'll not carry coals.

No, for then we should be colliers.

I strike quickly, being moved.

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?

Ay, 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 whilst I am able to stand:
And 'tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh.

(Chuckles)

Draw thy tool;
Here come two of the house of Montagues.

- Quarrel! I will back thee.
- How! 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;
let them take it as they list.

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?

- Is the law of our side if I say ay?
- No.

No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir;

but I do 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?

Say better;
here comes one of our master's kinsmen.

Yes, better, sir.

You lie.

Gregory!

Halt!

Remember thy swashing blow.

Part, fools!

Turn thee, Benvolio, 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.

(Yells angrily)

Have at thee, coward!

(Crowd gasps)

Argh!

(Yells)

Argh!

(Woman screams)

Argh!

(Screams)

(Cries)

(Woman continues crank)

(Child cries)

Down with the Capulets!

Down with the Montagues!

(Shouting)

What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!

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.

Thou villain Capulet!

- Hold me not, let me go.
- Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.

Strike! Beat them down!

Clubs, bills, and partisans!

Rebellious subjects, enemies of peace,
Profaners of this neighbour-stained 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 mistemper'd weapons to the ground

And hear the sentence of your moved prince.

Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,

Have thrice disturb'd 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,
Canker'd with peace, to part your canker'd 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:

Capulet, you shall go along with me.

Montague, come you this afternoon,
To hear our farther pleasure in this case.

Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

O, where is Romeo? Saw you him today?
Right glad I am he was not at this fray.

Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun
Peer'd forth the golden window of the east,

A troubled mind drew me to walk abroad;
Where, underneath the grove of sycamore

That westward rooteth from the city's 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.

Many a morning hath he there been seen,
With tears augmenting 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 humour 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 importun'd him by any means?
- Both by myself and many other friends.

Could we but learn
from whence his sorrows grow,

We would as willingly give cure as know.

Trust me, my lord: So please you step aside;

I'll know his grievance or be much denied.

Good morrow, cousin.

- Is the day so young?
- But new struck nine

Ay me!

Sad hours seem long.

What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?

Not having that which, having,
makes them short.

- In love?
- Out.

- Of love?
- Out of her favour 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 create!

O, heavy lightness! Serious vanity!

Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!

Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire,
sick health!

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 oppression.
- Why, such is love's transgression.

Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs;
Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;

Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with loving tears:
What is it else?

A madness most discreet,
A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

Farewell, my coz.

Soft!

I will go along:
And if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

Tut! 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?

- What, shall I groan and tell thee?
- Groan? Why, no;

But sadly tell me who.

In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.

I aim'd so near when I suppos'd you lov'd.

A right good marksman! And she's fair I love.

A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.

Well, in that hit you miss: She'll not be hit
With Cupid's arrow.

Then she hath sworn
that she will still live chaste?

She hath, and in that sparing
makes huge waste;

She hath forsworn to love;

and in that vow
Do I live dead that live to tell it now.

Be rul'd 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.

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 pass'd that passing fair?

- Farewell: Thou canst not teach me to forget.
- O, I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.

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.

Of honourable reckoning are you both,
And pity 'tis you've liv'd at odds so long.

But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?

But saying o'er what I have said before:
My child is yet a stranger to 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 marr'd are those so early made.

The 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.

(Sniffs)

This night I hold an old accustom'd feast,

Whereto 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 apparell'd April on the heel

Of limping Winter treads, even such delight
Among fresh female buds

shall you this night
inherit at my house.

Hear all, all see,
And like her most whose merit most shall be;

Come, go with me.

Go, sirrah, 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.

Find them out whose names are written here?

'Tis written that the shoemaker
should meddle with his... yard,

that the tailor with his... last,

that the fisher with his pencil
and the painter with his nets...

(Chuckles)

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!

Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning;
One pain is lessoned 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.

- God-den, good fellow.
- God gi' go-den.

- I pray, sir, can you read?
- Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.

Perhaps you have learned that without book.
But I pray, can you read anything that you see?

Ay, if I know the letters and the language.

Ye say honestly. Rest you merry!

Stay, fellow; I can read.

"Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;

County Anselme and his beauteous sisters;

The lady widow of Vitruvio;
Signior Placentio and his lovely nieces;

Mercutio and his brother Valentine;

Mine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;

My fair niece Rosaline and Livia;

Signior Valentino and his cousin Tybalt;
Lucio and the lively Helena."

- A fair assembly. Whither should they come?
- Up.

- Whither?
- To supper, at our house.

indeed I should have ask'd you that before.

Now I'll tell you without asking.

My master is the great rich Capulet;

and if you not be of the house of Montague,
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 lov'st;

With all the admired beauties of Verona.
Go hither, and with unattainted eye

Compare her face with some that I will show,
And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.

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 pois'd with herself in either eye;

But in that crystal scales let there be weigh'd
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 splendour of mine own.

Nurse, where's my daughter?

Call her forth to me.

Now, by my maidenhead at twelve years old,
I bade her come.

What, lamb!

What ladybird! God forbid! Where's this girl?

What, Juliet!

- How now? Who calls?
- Your mother.

Madam, I am here. What is your will?

This is the matter.

Nurse, give leave awhile,
We must talk in secret.

Nurse, come back again; I have rememb'red me,
thou's hear our counsel.

Thou knowest my daughter's of a pretty age.

- Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.
- She's not fourteen.

I'll lay fourteen of my teeth -

And to my teen be it spoken, I have but four -
She is not fourteen.

- How long is it now to Lammastide?
- A fortnight and odd days.

Even or odd, of all days of the year,
On Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen.

Susan and she, God rest all Christian souls,
Were of an age.

Well, Susan is with God;
She was too good for me.

But, as I said,
On Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen;

I remember it well.

'Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;

And on that day, of all days of the year,
that she was wean'd.

I never shall forget it.

For I had then laid wormwood to my dug,
Sitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall.

My lord and you were then in Mantua.

Nay, I do bear a bran.

But, as I said, when it did taste the wormwood
on the nipple of my dug and felt it bitter,

pretty wretch,
To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug!

Shake, quoth the dovehouse!

No need, then I trow, bid me trudge.

And since that time it is eleven years,

And then she could stand high-lone;
nay, by th'rood,

She then could run and waddle all about;

For even the day before, she broke her brow;

And then my husband,

O, God rest his soul,
who was a merry man, took up the child.

I quoth he, "Fall'st thou upon thy face?

Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;
Wilt thou not, Jule?"

And by my holidam
The pretty wretch left crank and said "Ay"

(Laughs)
O, to see now how a jest might come about!

I warrant, an I should live a thousand years,
I never should forget it.

"Wilt thou not, Jule?" quoth he.

(Laughs)

And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said, "Ay."

- Enough of this. I pray thee hold thy peace.
- Yes, madam.

- Juliet...
- I cannot choose but laugh!

To think it should leave crank 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.

"Ay," quoth my husband, "fall'st upon thy face?

Wilt fall backwards when thou comest to age;
Wilt thou not, Jule?"

(Laughs)

Pretty fool!

It stinted, and said, "Ay."

- And stint thou too, I pray thee, Nurse, say I.
- Peace, I have done.

God mark thee to his grace!

Thou wast the prettiest babe as e'er I nurs'd.

An I might live to see thee married once,
I'd have my wish.

Marry, 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 honour that I dream not of.

An honour?

Were not I thine only nurse, I would say
thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat.

Well, 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, lady!

Lady, such a man as all the world -
O, he's a man of wax.

- Verona's summer hath not such a flower.
- Nay, he's a flower, in faith, a very flower.

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;

Examine every married lineament,
And see how one another lends content;

And what obscur'd in that 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.

Women grow by men.

- 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.

Madam, the guests are come, supper serv'd up,
you call'd, my young lady ask'd for,

the nurse curs'd in the pantry,
and everything in extremity.

I must hence to wait.
I beseech you follow straight.

We follow thee. Juliet, the County stays.

Go, girl.

Seek happy nights to happy days.

(Singing and laughter)

- And shall we on without apology?
- The date is out of such prolixity.

But, 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 the common bound.

I am too sore enpierced 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 n.

A visor for a visor!

What care I
What curious eye doth quote deformities?

Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me.

Come, knock and enter; and no sooner n
But every man betake him to his legs.

And we mean well, in going to this masque;
But 'tis no wit to go.

Why, may one ask?

I dreamt a dream tonight.

And so did I.

- Well, what was yours?
- That dreamers often lie.

n 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 the agate stone

On the forefinger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies

Athwart 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's web;

Her collar, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams;

Her whip, of cricket's bone;

the lash, of film;

Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat,

Not half so big as a round little worm
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid;

Her chariot is an empty hazelnut,

(Laughter)

Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmaker.

And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains,

and then they dream of love;

O'er courtiers' knees,

who 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,

Then dreams he of smelling out a suit;

Sometimes 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 gallops o'er a soldier's neck,

Then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,

Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,

Of healths five fathoms 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 plats 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,
that when maids lie on their backs,

presses them and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage.

- This is she...
- Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!

Thou talk'st of nothing.

True, I talk of dreams;

Which are the children of an idle bran,
Begot of nothing but van fantasy;

Which is as thin of substance as the air,

And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the North

And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
Turning his side to the dew-dropping South.

This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves.

Supper is done, and we will 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 despised life,
clos'd in my breast,

By some vile forfeit of untimely death.

But he that hath the steerage of my course,

Direct my sail!

(Laughter)

On, lusty gentlemen!

Strike, drum!

(Drumming)

(Lively music)

(Laughter)

Where's Potpan,
that he helps not to take away?

- Anthony, and Potpan!
- Ay, boy, ready.

You are look'd for and call'd for,
ask'd for and sought for, in the great chamber.

We cannot be here and there too. Cheerily, boys!

Be brisk awhile, the longer liver takes all.

Look to the plate! Look to the plate!

- Oh!
- (Laughter)

CAPULET: Welcome gentlemen!

Ladies that have their toes unplagu'd with corns
will have a bout with you.

Ah ha, 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?

Whoo!

Welcome, gentlemen!

I have seen the day that I have worn a visor

and could tell a whispering tale
n a fair lady's ear,

such as would please.

'Tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone!

You are welcome, gentlemen!

Come, musicians, play!

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 unlook'd-for sport comes well.

Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet.

You and I are past our dancing days.

How long is't now since last yourself and I
Were in a mask?

O, by'r Lady, thirty years.

'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 mask'd.

'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.

(Court music)

(Approving cheers)

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
Like 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.

Did my heart love till now?

Forswear it, sight!

For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

Fetch me my rapier, boy.

What, dares the slave come hither,
cover'd with an antic face,

To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?

Now, by the stock and honour of my kn,
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.

Why, how now, kinsman?
Wherefore storm you so?

Uncle, 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,

And, to say truth, Verona brags of him
To be a virtuous and well-govern'd 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 you 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 endur'd. What, 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 cock-a-hoop! 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; what!

Cheerily, my hearts!

Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting

Makes my flesh tremble
n their different greeting.

I will withdraw; but this intrusion shall,
Now seeming sweet, convert to bitt'rest gall.

(Music starts for new dance)

If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle fine 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 pray'r.

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 purg'd.

Then have my lips the sin that they have took.

Sn from my lips?

O, trespass sweetly urg'd!

Give me my sin again.

You kiss by th' book.

Madam, 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 wise and virtuous.

I nurs'd her daughter that you talk'd withal.

I tell you, he that can lay hold on 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.

O, nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone;

We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.

Ah! Is it e'en so?

(Laughs)

Ah, well, I thank you all.
I thank you, honest gentlemen.

Good night.

More torches here!

Come hither, Nurse.

What is yond gentleman?

The son and heir of old Tiberio.

Weee!

What's he that now is going out of door?

Marry, 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 married,
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 loathed enemy.

What's this? What's this?

A rhyme I learnt even now
Of one I danc'd withal.

Come, let's away.

Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie,
And young affection gapes to be his heir;

That fair for which love groan'd for
and would die,

With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair.

Now Romeo is belov'd, and loves again,
Alike bewitched by the charm of looks;

But to his foe suppos'd he must complain,

And she steal love's sweet bait
from fearful hooks.

Being held a foe, he may not have access
To use those vows as lovers use to swear,

And she as much in love, her means much less
To meet her new beloved anywhere;

But passion lends them power,
time means to meet,

Temp'ring extremities with extreme sweet.

(Laughter and chattering)

Can I go forward when my heart is here?

Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.

My cousin Romeo!

Romeo!

He is wise,
And, on my life, hath stol'n him home to bed.

He ran this way, and leapt that orchard wall.

Call, good Mercutio.

Nay, I'll conjure too.

Romeo!

Humours!

Madman!

Passion!

Lover!

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.

- He heareth not.
- (Moans)

- He stirreth not.
- Mm...

He moveth not.

The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.

- Hm.
- Hm.

- I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes.
- (Laughs)

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!

An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him. Ssh!

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 conjur'd it down.

(Benvolio laughs)

That were some spite;
my invocation is fair and honest:

n his mistress' name,
I conjure only but to raise up him.

(Both laugh)

Come, 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.

Now will he sit under a medlar tree

And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit

that maids call medlars when they laugh alone.

(Laughs)

O, Romeo, that she were,

O, that she were... an open... et cetera,

and thou a pop'rin pear!

(Both laugh)

Romeo,

good night!

I'll to my truckle-bed;
This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.

Come, shall we go?

Go, for 'tis in van
To seek him here that means not to be found!

(Both laugh)

He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

But soft!

What light through yonder window breaks?

It is the East,

and Juliet is the sun!

Arise, 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
Would through the airy region stream so bright

That birds would sing
and think it were not night.

O see how she leans her cheek upon her hand!

O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!

Ay me!

She speaks.

O, speak again, bright angel!

For thou art as glorious to this night,
being o'er my head,

As is a winged messenger of heaven

Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him

When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds

And sails upon the bosom of the air.

O, Romeo, Romeo!

Wherefore art thou, Romeo?

Deny thy father and refuse thy name!

Or, 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,
nor any other part belonging to a man.

O, be some other name!

What's in a name?

That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.

So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,

Retain that dear perfection which he owes
without that title

O, Romeo, 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 baptis'd;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

What man art thou that, thus bescreen'd 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,
Because 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?
- Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.

How cam'st 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.

Ssh! If they do see thee, they will murder thee.

Alack, 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 prorogued, wanting of thy love.

By whose direction found'st thou out this place?

By love, that first did prompt me to enquire.

He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.

I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far
As that vast shore wash'd 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.

Fan would I dwell on form - fan, fan deny
What I have spoke; but farewell compliment!

Dost thou love me, I know thou wilt say "Ay";
And I will take thy word.

But 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 thinkest 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.

n truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,
And therefore thou mayst think my haviour light;

but trust me, gentleman,

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 true love's passion.

Therefore pardon me,
and not impute this yielding to light love,

Which the dark night hath so discovered.

O, lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow,

- That tips with silver all the fruit-tree tops...
- O, swear not by the moon,

the inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled 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,

- If my heart's dear love...
- Well, do not swear.

Although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract tonight.

It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden;

Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say "It lightens".

Sweet, good night!

This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,

Good night, good night!

As sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart as that within my breast!

O, 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.

Would'st thou withdraw it?
For what purpose, love?

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.

(Clatter)
- I hear some noise within.

Dear love, adieu!

Anon, good nurse!

Sweet Montague, be true.

Stay but a little, I will come again.

O, blessed, blessed night!

I am afeard, being in night,
all this is but a dream,

Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.

Three words, dear Romeo,
and good night indeed.

If that thy bent of love be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage -

- Yes?
- 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.

But if thou mean'st not well, I do beseech thee...

...to cease thy suit 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,
towards school with heavy looks.

Hist! Romeo, hist!

O, for a falconer'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's name.

Romeo!

It is my soul that calls upon my name.

How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears!

Romeo!

- At what o'clock tomorrow shall I send to thee?
- By the hour of nine.

I shall 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,
Rememb'ring how I love thy company.

And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.

'Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone.

And yet no further than a wanton's bird,
That lets it hop a little from her hand,

Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,

so loving-jealous of his liberty.

I would I were thy bird.

Sweet, 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!

(Birdsong)

The grey-ey'd morn smiles
on the frowning night,

Check'ring the Eastern clouds
with streaks of light;

And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reels
From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels.

Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye
The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry,

I must up-fill this osier cage of ours

With baleful weeds and precious-juiced 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 at her natural bosom find;

O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies

n plants, herbs, stones, 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,
strain'd from that fair use,

Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.

Within the infant rind of this weak flower

Poison hath residence, and medicine power;

For this, being smelt,
with that part cheers each part;

Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.

Two such opposed kings encamp them still
n man as well as herbs -

grace and rude will;

And where the worser is predominant,
Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.

- Good morrow, father.
- Benedicite!

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?

Young son, it argues a distempered head
So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.

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?

No.
I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.

That's my good son!

- 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, blessed man, for, lo,
My intercession likewise steads my foe.

Be plan, 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 combin'd, save what thou must combine

By holy marriage.

When, and where, and how
We met, we woo'd, 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, whom 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 wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!

How much salt water thrown away in waste,
To season love, that of it doth not taste!

Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit
Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet.

If e'er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline.

And art thou chang'd?
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 n, 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.
n one respect I'll thy assistant be;

For this alliance may so happy prove
To turn your households' rancour to pure love.

O, let us hence!

I stand on sudden haste.

Wisely, and slow.

They stumble that run fast.

Where the devil should this Romeo be?

Came he not home tonight?

Not to his father's. I spoke with his man.

Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench,
that Rosaline,

Torments him so he will sure run mad.

Tybalt, 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.

Nay, he will answer the letter's master,
how he dares, being dared.

Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead!

Stabb'd 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 butt-shaft.

And is he a man to encounter Tybalt?

Why, what is Tybalt?

More than Prince of Cats.

O, he's the courageous captain of compliments.

He fights as you sing pricksong - keeps time,
distance, and proportion;

rests his minim rest,
one, two, and the third in your bosom!

The very butcher of a silk button,

a duellist, a duellist!

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 on such antic, lisping,
affecting fantasticoes!

WOMAN: Water!

Fresh well water!

These new tuners of accent!

"By Jesu, a very good blade!

A very tall man!

A very good whore!"

Why, is it not a lamentable thing, grandsire,

that we should be thus afflicted
with these strange flies,

these fashion-mongers, these pardonnez-mois,
that stand so much on the new form

that they cannot sit at ease on an old bench?

O, their bones, their bones!

Here comes Romeo!

Here comes Romeo!

Without his roe, like a dried herring.

BOTH: Oh!

Flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!

Signior Romeo, bon jour!

There's a French salutation to your French slop.

Good morrow to you both.

You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.

- What counterfeit did I give you?
- The slip, sir, the slip.

- Can you not conceive?
- Pardon, 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, that such a case
as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams.

- Meaning, to curtsey.
- Thou hast most kindly hit it.

- A most courteous exposition.
- Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.

- Pink for flower.
- Right.

Why, then is my pump well-flower'd.

Come between us, good Benvolio! My wit faints.

Why, is this not 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 drivelling love is like a great natural

that runs lolling up and down
to hide his bauble in a hole.

Stop there, stop there!

WOMAN: Oh, clumsy oaf!
- Here's goodly gear!

- A sail, a sail!
- Two, two! A shirt and a smock.

- Peter!
- Anon.

My fan, Peter.

Good Peter to hide her face;
for the fan's the fairer face.

God ye good morrow, gentlemen.

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!

One, gentlewoman,
that God hath made for himself to mar.

By my troth, it is well said.

"For himself to mar," quoth 'a?

Gentlemen, 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.

Yea, is the worst well?

Very well took, i' faith!

Wisely, wisely.

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,

which is something stale and hoar
ere it be spent.

Romeo, will you come to your father's?

- We'll to dinner thither.
- I will follow you.

Farewell, ancient lady.

- Farewell.
- Argh!

(Gasps)

I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this
that was so full of his ropery?

A gentleman, Nurse,
that loves to hear himself talk

and will speak more in a minute
than he will stand to in a month.

An 'a speak anything against me,
I'll take him down,

an '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 skains-mates.

(Laughs)

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.

Afore God,

O, I am so vexed every part about me quivers.

Saucy knave!

Pray you, sir, a word;

and, as I told you,
my young lady bid me enquire you out.

Now, what she bid me tell you,
I'll keep to myself;

but first let me tell ye,

if ye should lead her into a fool's paradise,
as they say,

that were a very gross sort of behaviour,
as they say.

Bid her devise
Some means to come to shrift this afternoon;

And there she shall at Friar Lawrence' cell
Be shriv'd and married.

(Cons rattle)

Be trusty, and I'll quit thy pans.

Farewell. Commend me to thy mistress.

Ooh!

Hark you, sir.

Mistress is the sweetest lady.

O, Lord, Lord!

When 'twas a little prating thing.

There is a nobleman in town, one Paris,
would fan lay knife aboard;

I anger her sometimes,
and tell her that Paris is the properer man;

but when I say so, I'll warrant you she looks
as pale as any clout in the versal world.

Commend me to thy lady.

Ay. Ay, a thousand times.

- Peter!
- Anon.

Before.

O, and apace.

(Birdsong)

The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse;
n half an hour she promis'd to return.

Perchance 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.

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 folk, many feign as they were dead -
Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.

O, God, she comes!

O, honey nurse, what news?

Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.

Peter, stay at the gate.

O, Lord, why look'st thou sad?

Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily;

If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news
By playing it to me with so sour a face.

I am aweary, give me leave awhile.

Oh, fie, how my bones ache!

What a jaunce have I had!

I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news.

Nay, come, I pray thee speak.
Good, good nurse, speak.

Jesu, what haste!

Can you not stay awhile?

Do you not see 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 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?

Well, you have made a simple choice;

you know not how to choose a man.

Romeo? 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 talk'd on,
yet are they past compare.

O, he is not the flower of courtesy,
yet I'll warrant as gentle as a lamb.

Go thy ways, wench; serve God.

- What, have you din'd at home?
- No, no.

But all this did I know before.

What says he of our marriage? What of that?

O, Lord, how my head aches!

What a head have I!

It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.

O, my back! T'other side. O, 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 thou art not well.

Sweet, sweet,
Sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love?

Your love says, like an honest gentleman,

and a kind, and a courteous,

and a handsome,

and, I warrant, a virtuous -
Where is your mother?

Where is my mother?

Why, 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?

Henceforward do your messages yourself.

Here's such a coil!

Come, what says Romeo?

Have you got leave to go to shrift today?

I have.

Then hie you hence to Friar Lawrence' 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
Shall climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark.

O, I am the drudge, and toil in your delight;
But you shall bear the burthen soon at night.

Go; I'll to dinner; hie you to the cell.

Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell.

So smile the heavens upon this holy act
That after-hours 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,
Therefore love moderately: Long love doth so;

Here comes the lady.

O, so light a foot
Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint.

A lover may bestride the gossamer
That idles in the wanton summer air,

And yet not fall; so light is vanity.

Good even to my ghostly confessor.

Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.

Come come here to me
and we will make short work

For, by your leave, you shall not stay alone
Till Holy Church incorporate two in one.

Deus Israel conjugat vos,

Et ipse sit vobiscum
qui misertus est duobus unicis;

et nunc, Domne, fac eos plenius benedicere te.

(Church bell chimes)

(Church bell chimes)

I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire.
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad.

And 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 on the table and says,
"God send me no need of thee!"

And by the operation of the second cup
draws him upon 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?

Nay, there were two such,
we should have none shortly,

- for one would kill the other.
- Ha!

Thou! Why, thou wouldst quarrel with a man

that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard
than thou hast.

Thou would 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;

yet thy head has been beaten
as addle as an egg for quarrelling.

Thou hast quarrell'd with a man
for coughing in the street,

because he hath wakened your dog
that hath lain asleep in the sun.

(Laughs)

Didst thou not fall out with a tailor
for wearing his new doublet before Easter,

with another for tying his new shoe
with old riband? Ah-ah!

Yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling!

(Chuckles)

By my head, here comes the Capulet.

By my heel, I care not.

Follow me close, for I will speak to them.

Gentlemen, good den.

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,
an you will give me occasion.

Could you not take some occasion
without the giving?

Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo.

Consort?

What, dost thou make us minstrels?

An thou makes minstrels of us,
look to hear nothing but discords.

Here's my fiddlestick;
here's that shall make you dance.

- Zounds, consort!
- 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.

Well, peace be with you, sir.
Here comes my man.

But I'll be hang'd, sir, if he wear your livery.

Marry, go before to the field,
he'll be your follower!

Your worship in that sense may call him man.

Romeo,

the love I bear thee can afford
No better term than this: Thou art a villain.

Tybalt, 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.

Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries
That thou hast done me;

therefore turn and draw.

I do protest I never injur'd 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, dishonourable, vile submission!
Alla stoccata carries it away!

Tybalt, you ratcatcher, will you walk?

What wouldst thou have with me?

Good King of Cats,
nothing but one of your nine lives.

Which I mean to make bold withal,
and, as you shall use me hereafter,

dry-beat the rest of the eight.

Will you pluck your sword
from the pitcher by the ears?

Make haste, lest mine be about your ear
ere it be out.

Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up!

(Shouting)

Come, sir, your passado!

Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons!

(Crowd shouts)

Tybalt, Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath
Forbid this bandying in Verona streets.

(Shouting)

(Whistles)

(Laughter)

Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!

I am hurt.

A plague on both your houses!

I am sped.

What, is he gone and hath nothing?

What, art thou hurt?

Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, 'tis enough.

Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.

Courage, man. The hurt cannot be much.

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.

(Whimpers)

A plague on both your houses!

Zounds, 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, Benvolio,
Or I shall faint.

A plague on both your houses!

They have made worms' meat of me.

I have it,

And soundly too.

Your houses!

O, sweet Juliet,
Thy beauty hath made me effeminate.

And in my temper soft'ned valour's steel.

O, Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio is dead!

That gallant spirit hath aspir'd 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 that others must end!
- Here comes the furious Tybalt back again.

Alive in triumph, and Mercutio slain?
Away to heaven respective leinity,

And fire-ey'd fury be my conduct now!

Tybalt, 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!

Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here,
Shalt with him hence.

This shall determine that.

Romeo, away, be gone!
The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.

Stand not amaz'd.

The Prince will doom thee death
If thou art taken.

Hence, be gone, away!

O, I am fortune's fool!

Why dost thou stay?

CITIZEN: Which way ran he that kill'd Mercutio?

Tybalt, that murtherer, which way ran he?

There lies that Tybalt.

Up, sir, go with me.
I charge thee in the Prince's name obey.

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.

Tybalt, my cousin!

O, the blood is spill'd
Of my dear kinsman!

Prince, as thou art true,

For blood of ours shed blood of Montague.

Benvolio, who began this bloody fray?

Tybalt, now slain,
whom Romeo's hand did slay.

He is a kinsman to the Montague;

Affection makes him false,
he speaks not true.

Some twenty of them fought 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 offence
lmmediately 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,

Else when he is found

that hour is his last

Attend our will.

Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus' lodging!

Such a wagoner
As Phaeton would whip you to the West

And bring in cloudy night immediately.

Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,

That runaway eyes may wink, and Romeo
Leap to these arms untalk'd of and unseen.

Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties;

or, if love be blind,
It best agrees with night.

Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,

And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.

Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks,

With thy black mantle
till strange love, grown bold,

Think true love acted simple modesty.

Come, night; come, Romeo;

come, thou day in night;

For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night

Whiter than new snow on a raven's back.

Come, gentle night;

come, loving, black-brow'd night;

Give me my Romeo;

and, when he shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he shall 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.

O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess'd it;

and though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy'd.

So tedious is this day
As is the night before some festival

To an impatient child who hath new robes
And may not wear them.

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?

We are undone, lady, we are undone!

Alack the day! He's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead!

Can heaven be so envious?

Romeo can,
Though heaven cannot.

O, Romeo, Romeo!

Who ever would have thought it? Romeo!

What devil art thou that dost torment me thus?

This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell.

Hath Romeo slain himself?

Say thou but ay,

And that bare vowel ay shall poison more
Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice.

If he be slain, say ay; or if not, no.

Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.

I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eye,

(God save the mark!) here on his manly breast.

A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;

Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood,

All in gore-blood. I swounded at the sight.

O, break, my heart!
Poor bankrupt, 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?

Then, dreadful trumpet,
sound the general doom!

For who is living, if those two are gone?

Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished;

Romeo that slew him, he is banished.

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-feather'd raven! Wolfish-ravening lamb!

Despised substance of divinest show!

Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st -

A damned saint, an honourable villain!

O, nature, what hadst thou to do in hell

When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend
n mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?

Was ever book containing such vile matter
So fairly bound?

O, that deceit should dwell
n such a gorgeous palace!

There's no trust,

No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd,

All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.

Where's my man? Give me some aqua vitae.

These woes, these griefs,
these sorrows make me old.

Shame come to Romeo!

Blister'd be thy tongue
For such a wish!

He was not born to shame.

Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit;

For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd

Sole monarch of the universal earth.

O, what a beast was I to chide at him!

Will you speak well of him that kill'd your cousin?

Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?

Ah, poor my lord,

what tongue shall smooth thy name
When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it?

But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?

That villain cousin would have kill'd my husband.

Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring!

Your tributary drops belong to woe,
Which you, mistaking, 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 fan;

But O, it presses to my memory
Like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds!

"Tybalt is dead, and Romeo - banished."

That "banished", that one word "banished",

Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts.

Tybalt's death
Was woe enough, if it had ended there;

Why followed not,
when she said "Tybalt's dead",

Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both?

"Romeo is banished" -

to speak that word
Is Father, Mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,

All slain, all dead.

"Romeo is banished" -

There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,

n that word's death;

Where is my father and my mother, Nurse?

Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corse.

Will you go to them? I will bring thee 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 beguil'd,
Both you and I,

for Romeo is exil'd.

He made you for a highway to my bed;

But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.

Come, cords; come, Nurse.

I'll to my wedding bed;

And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!

Romeo...

Romeo, come forth;

come forth, thou fearful man.

Affliction is enamour'd of thy parts,
And thou art wedded to calamity.

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 vanish'd from his lips -

Not body's death, but body's banishment.

Ha, banishment?

Be merciful, say "death".

Here from Verona art thou banished.
Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.

There is no world without Verona walls,

(Thunder)

But purgatory,

torture, hell itself.

Hence banished is banish'd from the world,
And world's exile is death.

Then banished
Is death misterm'd.

Calling death "banished",
Thou cut'st my head off with a golden axe

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 rush'd aside the law,

And turn'd that black word death to banishment.

This is dear mercy, and thou seest 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 honourable state,

more courtship lives
n carrion flies than Romeo.

They may seize
On the white wonder of dear Juliet's flesh

And steal immortal blessings from her lips,

But Romeo may not - he is banished.
This may flies do, when I from this must fly;

They are free men, but I am banished.

And sayest thou yet that exile is not death?

Hadst thou no poison mix'd,
no sharp-ground knife,

No sudden mean of death,
though ne'er so mean,

But "banished" to kill me -

"banished"?

O, Friar, the damned 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 profess'd,
To mangle me with that word "banished"?

Thou fond mad man, hear me a little speak.

O, thou wilt speak again of banishment!

I'll give thee armour to keep off that word;

Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy,
To comfort thee, though thou art banished.

Yet "banished"? 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.

Then I see that madmen have no ears.

How can they,
when the wise men have no eyes?

Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.

Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel.

Were thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,
An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,

Doting like me, and like me banished,
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!

(Knock at door)

Romeo, hide thyself.

Not l; unless the breath of heartsick groans,

Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes.

(Knocking)

Hark, how they knock! Romeo, arise;

- Thou wilt be taken.
(Knocking contnues)

Stay awhile!

Stand up;
Run to my study.

By-and-by!

God's will,
What simpleness is this?

(Knocking contnues)

I come, I come!

Who is't that knocks so hard?
Whence come you?

What's your will?

Let me come n, 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... piteous predicament!

Even so lies she,

Blubb'ring and weeping,
weeping and blubbering.

Stand up, stand!

Stand, an you be a man.

For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand!

Why should you fall into so deep an O?

Nurse -

O, sir! O, sir!

Well, 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 stain'd the childhood of our joy
With blood remov'd but little from her own?

Where is she? And how doth she?

O, 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 murdered her;
as that name's cursed hand

Murder'd her kinsman.

O, tell me, Friar, tell me,

n what vile part of this anatomy
Doth my name lodge?

Tell me, that I may sack
The hateful mansion!

- (Nurse screams)
- 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.

Thou hast amaz'd me. By my holy order,
I thought thy disposition better temper'd.

Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou slay thyself?
And slay thy lady that in thy life lives,

By doing damned hate upon thyself?

What, 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 too.

The law, that threat'ned death,
becomes thy friend

And turns it to exile. There art thou happy.

A pack of blessings lights upon thy back;
Happiness courts thee in her best array;

But, like a misbehav'd and sullen wench,
Thou pout'st 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, Nurse. Commend me to thy lady,
Bid her hasten all the house to bed,

Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto.
Romeo is coming.

O, Lord, I could have stay'd here all the night

To hear good counsel. O, what learning is!

My lord, I'll tell my lady you will come.

Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.

Here. Here, sir. A ring she bid me give you, sir.

Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late.

How well my comfort is reviv'd 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 disguis'd 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. Farewell;

good night.

But that a joy past joy calls out on me,
It were a grief so brief to part with thee.

Farewell.

Things have fall'n out, sir, so unluckily
That we have had no time to move our daughter.

Look you, she lov'd her kinsman Tybalt dearly,

And so did I.

Well, we are born to die.

(Sighs)

'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 time to woo.

Madam, good night.

Commend me to your daughter.

I will, and know her mind early tomorrow;

Tonight she's mew'd up to her heaviness.

Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender
Of my child's love.

I think she will be rul'd
n all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not.

Wife, 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.

Thursday, be it, then - 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.
Therefore 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.

Wife, go you to Juliet ere you go to bed;

Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day.
Farewell, my lord.

Light to my chamber, ho!

Afore me,

It is so very, very late
That we may call it early (Laughs)

By-and-by.

Good night.

(Birds chirp)

Wilt thou be gone?

It is not yet near day.

It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear.

Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree.

Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

It was the lark, the herald of the morn;
No nightingale.

Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder East.

Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.

I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

Yond light is not daylight; I know it, I.

It is some meteor that the sun exhales

To be to thee this night a torchbearer

And to light thee on thy way to Mantua.

Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone.

Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death.
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.

I'll say yon grey 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.

Come, death, 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, away!

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 loathed toad
chang'd eyes;

O, now I would they had chang'd voices too,

Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,

Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day!

O, now be gone!
More light and light it grows.

More light and light -
more dark and dark our woes!

(Knocking)
NURSE: Madam!

Nurse?

Madam, your lady mother
is coming to your chamber.

The day is broke; be wary, look about.

Then, window, let day n, and let life out.

Farewell! One kiss, and I'll descend.

Art thou gone so, love, lord, my husband, friend?

I must hear from thee every day in the hour,

For in a minute there are many days.

O, by this count I shall be much in years
Ere I again behold my Romeo!

Farewell! I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

O, think'st thou we shall ever meet again?

I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
As sweet discourses in our times to come.

O, God, I have an ill-divining soul!

Methinks I see thee, now thou art below,
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, Fortune!

All men call thee fickle.

If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him
That is renown'd for faith?

Be fickle, Fortune,
For then I hope thou wilt not keep him long

But send him back.

Ho, daughter! Are you up?

Why, how now, Juliet?

Madam, I am not well.

Evermore weeping for your cousin's death?

What, will you 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.

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.

Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death

As that the villain lives which slaughter'd him.

What villain, madam?

That same villain Romeo.

JULIET: 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.

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!

O, we will have vengeance for it, fear thou not.

Then weep no more.

I'll send to one in Mantua,
Where that same banish'd runagate doth live,

Shall give him such an unaccustom'd 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 -

Madam, 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.

O, how my heart abhors
To hear him nam'd and cannot come to him.

Find thou the means, and I'll find such a man.

But now I'll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.

And joy comes well in such a needy time.
What are they, I beseech your ladyship?

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 look'd not for.

Madam, in happy time! What day is that?

Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn

The gallant, young, 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, madam,
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!
- Here comes your father.

Tell him so yourself,
And see how he will take it at your hands.

When the sun sets the air doth drizzle dew,

But for the sunset of my brother's son
It rains downright.

How now? A conduit, girl?

What, still in tears?

Evermore show'ring?

n one little body
Thou counterfeit'st 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 wind, thy sighs,
Who, raging with thy tears and they with them,

Without a sudden calm will overset
Thy tempest-tossed body.

How now, wife?
Have you delivered to her our decree?

Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks.

I would the fool were married to her grave!

Soft! Take me with you, take me with you, wife.

How? 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 bridegroom?

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.

How, how, how, how, choplogic?
What is this?

"Proud" - and "I thank you" -
and "I thank you not" - And yet "not proud"?

Mistress minion you,
Thank me no thankings,

and 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.

Out, you green-sickness carrion,
out, you baggage! You tallow-face!

Fie, fie! What, 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.

Wife, 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, hilding!

God in heaven bless her!

- You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.
- Hold your tongue, Good Prudence.

- Smatter with your gossips, go!
- I speak no treason.

- O, God-i-god-en!
- May one not speak?

Peace, you mumbling fool!
Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl,

- For here we need it not.
- 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 match'd;

and having now provided
A gentleman of noble parentage,

Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd,

Stuff'd, as they say, with honourable parts,

Proportion'd 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"!

But, an 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, advise:

An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend;

An you be not, hang, beg, starve,
die in the streets,

For, 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 thou do not, make the bridal bed
n that dim monument where Tybalt lies.

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 can 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 practise stratagems

Upon so soft a subject as myself!

What say'st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy?

Some comfort, Nurse.

Faith, here it is.

Romeo is banish'd; and all the world to nothing

That he dare ne'er come back
to challenge thee;

Or if he do, it needs must be by stealth.

Then, since the case so stands as now it doth,

I think it best you married with the County.

O, he's a lovely gentleman!

Romeo's a dishclout to him.

An eagle, madam,

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?

Ay, and from my soul too;
or else beshrew them both.

Amen!

What?

Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.

Go n; and tell my lady I am gone,

Having displeas'd my father, to Lawrence' cell,

To make confession and to be absolv'd.

Marry, I will;

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 prais'd him with above compare
So many thousand times?

Go, counsellor!

Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.

I'll to the friar to know his remedy.

If all else fail, myself have power to die.

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.

Uneven is the course; I like it not.

Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death,

And therefore have I little talk'd 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,

Which, too much minded by herself alone,
May be put from her by society.

I would I knew not why it should be slow'd.

Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.

Happily met, my lady... and my wife!

That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.

That may be must be, love, 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.

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!

Juliet, 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 cure, past help!

Ah, 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 County.

Tell me not, Friar, that thou hear'st 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 join'd my heart and Romeo's,
thou our hands;

And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo's seal'd,

Shall be the label to another deed,

Or my true heart with treacherous revolt

Turn to another, this shall slay them both.

Therefore, out of thy long-experienc'd time,

Give me some present counsel

or, behold,
'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 honour 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.

If, 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?

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'ercover'd 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 unstain'd wife to my sweet love.

Hold, then. Go home, be merry, give consent
To marry Paris.

Wednesday 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 distilled liquor drink thou off

When presently through all thy veins shall run

A cold and drowsy humour;

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

Like death when he shuts up the day of life;

Each part, depriv'd of supple government,
Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death;

And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death
Shalt thou continue two-and-forty hours,

And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.

Now, when the bridegroom
n the morning comes

To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead.

Then, as the manner of our country is,
n thy best robes uncovered on the bier

Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault
Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie.

n the mean time,
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 valour in the acting it.

O, give me, give me!

O, tell me not of fear!

Hold! Get you gone, be strong and prosperous
n 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.

Farewell, dear father.

PETER: Thou art a poltroon!

- Sampson.
- Anon.

My fan.

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 enjoin'd
By holy Lawrence to fall prostrate here

To beg your pardon.

Pardon, I beseech you!
Henceforward I am ever rul'd 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 Lawrence' cell
And gave him what becomed love I might,

Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty.

Why, I am glad on't. This is well. Stand up.

This is as't should be.

Let me see the County.

Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither.

Now, afore God, this reverend holy friar,

All our whole city is much bound to him.

Nurse, will you go with me into my closet
To help me sort such needful ornaments

As you think fit to furnish me tomorrow?

No, not till Thursday.
There is time enough.

Go, Nurse, go with her.
We'll to church tomorrow.

We shall be short in our provisions.
'Tis now near night.

Tush, I will stir about,
And all things will be well, I warrant thee, wife.

Go thou with 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;

well, I will walk myself
To County Paris,

and prepare up him
Against tomorrow.

My heart is wondrous light.

This same wayward girl is so reclaim'd.

Ay, those attires are best;

but, 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,

Which, well thou knowest, is cross and full of sin.

What, are you busy, ho? Need you my help?

No, madam; we have cull'd necessaries
As are behooffull 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
n this so sudden business.

Good night.

Get thee to bed, and rest;

for thou hast need.

Farewell!

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.

Nurse!

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.

What if it be a poison which the friar
Subtly hath minist'red to have me dead,

Lest in this marriage he be dishonour'd
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 n,

And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?

Or, 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 pack'd;

Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,
Lies fest'ring in his shroud;

where, 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 -

O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,

Environed with all these hideous fears,

And madly play with my forefathers' joints,

And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud,

And, in this rage,
with some great kinsman's bone

As with a club dash out my desp'rate brains?

(Wind whistles)

O, look!

Methinks I see my cousin's ghost
Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body

Upon a rapier's point.

Stay, Tybalt, stay!

Romeo, I come!

This do I drink to thee.

(Coughs and gasps)

Gregory!

Nurse, take these keys and fetch more spices.

They call for dates and quinces in the pastry.

Come, stir, stir, stir!
The second cock hath crow'd,

The curfew bell is ruing, 'tis three o'clock.
Look for the bak'd meats, good Angelica;

Spare not for cost.

O, you cot-quean, go,
Get you to bed!

Faith, you'll be sick tomorrow
with this night's watching.

No, not a whit. What, I have watch'd ere now
All night for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick.

Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time;

But I will watch you from such watching now.

A jealous hood, a jealous hood!

- Well, fellow, what is there?
- Things for the cook, sir; I know not what.

Make haste, make haste. Fetch drier logs.
Peter will show thee where they are.

I have a head, sir, that will find out logs
And never trouble Peter for the matter.

Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha!
Thou shalt be loggerhead.

(Laughter)

Good faith, 'tis day.

The County will be here with music straight,
For so he said he would.

I hear him near.
Nurse! Wife! What, ho! What, Nurse, I say!

Go waken Juliet; help to trim her up.

I'll go and chat with Paris.

Hie, make haste,
Make haste!

The bridegroom he is come already:
Make haste, I say.

(Knocking)

Mistress!

What, mistress!

Juliet!

Fast, I warrant her, she.

Why, lamb!

Why, lady! Fie, you slug-abed!

Why, love, I say!

Madam! Sweetheart!

Why, bride!

You take your pennyworths now!

Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,

The County Paris hath set up his rest
That you shall rest but little.

God forgive me!
Marry, and amen.

How sound is she asleep!

I needs must wake her.

Madam, madam, madam!

Ay, let the County take you in your bed!

He'll fright you up, i' faith. Will it not... be?

What, dress'd, and in your clothes,

and down again?

I needs must wake you.

Madam...

Madam!

Lady! (Sobs)

Lady!

Alack, alack! My lady's dead!

Help, help!

O, weraday that ever I was born!

Give me some aqua-vitae, ho!

- What noise is here?
- O, lamentable day!

- What is the matter?
- O, look, O, look! O, heavy day!

O, me! My child... my only life!

Revive, look up, or I will die with thee!

Help, help!

Call help!

For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come.

She's dead, deceas'd; she's dead!
Alack the day!

Alack the day, she's dead, she's dead,
she's dead!

Ha! Let me see her.

Out alas! She's cold,

Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff;

Life and these lips have long been separated.

Death lies on her like an untimely frost

Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

O, lamentable day!

O, woeful time!

Death, that hath ta'en her hence
to make me wail,

Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak.

(Wedding music)

Come, is the bride ready to go to church?

Ready to go, but never to return.

O son the night before thy wedding day

Hath Death lain with thy wife

There she lies,

Flower as she was, deflowered by him.

Death is my son-n-law,

Death is my heir;

My daughter he hath wedded.

I will die
And leave him all.

Life, living, all is Death's.

Have I thought long to see this morning's face,

And doth it give me such a sight as this?

LADY CAPULET:
Accurs'd, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!

Most miserable hour that e'er time saw
n lasting labour of his pilgrimage!

But one,

poor one, one poor and loving child,

But one thing to rejoice and solace n,

And cruel Death hath catch'd it from my sight!

O, woe!

O, woeful, woeful, woeful day!

Most lamentable day, most woeful day

That ever, ever I did yet behold!

Uncomfortable time, why cam'st thou now

To murder, murder our solemnity?

O, child! O, child!

My soul, but not my child!

Dead art thou!

Alack, my child is dead,

And with my child my joys are buried!

Peace, ho, for shame!

Confusion's cure lives not
n these confusions.

Heaven and yourself
Had part in this fair maid!

Now heaven hath all,
And all the better is it for the maid.

Dry up your tears and stick your rosemary
On this fair corse,

and, as our custom is,
n all her best array bear her to church;

For though fond nature bids us all lament,
Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment.

All things that we ordained festival
Turn from their office to black funeral -

Our instruments to melancholy bells,

Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast;

Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change;

Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse;

And all things change them to the contrary.

Sir, go you n;

and, madam, go with him;

And go, Sir Paris. All of you prepare
To follow this fair corse unto her grave.

The heavens do low'r upon you for some ill;

Move them no more by crossing their high will.

(Nurse moans)

Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.

Musicians, O, musicians,

Heart's Ease, Heart's Ease!

O, an you will have me live, play Heart's Ease.

Why Heart's Ease?

O, musicians, because my heart itself plays
"My heart is full o' woe".

O, play me some merry dump to comfort me.

Not a dump we! 'Tis no time to play now.

If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep
My dreams presage some joyful news at hand.

My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne,
And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit

Lifts me above the ground
with cheerful thoughts.

I dreamt my lady came and found me dead.

Strange dream
that gives a dead man leave to think!

And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips
That I reviv'd and was an emperor.

How now, Balthasar?

Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?

How doth my lady? Is my father well?

How fares my Juliet? That I ask again,
For nothing can be ill if she be well.

Then she is well, and nothing can be ill.

Her body sleeps in Capels' monument,

And her immortal part with angels lives.

I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault

And presently took post to tell it you.

O, pardon me for bringing these ill news,

Since you did leave it for my office, sir.

Is it e'en so?

Then I defy you, stars!

Go hire post horses. I will hence tonight.

I do beseech you, sir, have patience.

Your looks are pale and wild and do import
Some misadventure.

Tush, thou art deceiv'd.
Leave me and do the thing I bid thee do.

Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?

No matter. Get thee gone.

I will hence tonight.

Well, Juliet...

I will lie with thee tonight.

Let's see for means.

O, mischief,

thou art swift
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!

What, ho! Apothecary!

Who calls so loud?

Come hither, man.

I see that thou art poor.

Hold, there is forty ducats.

Let me have
A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear

As will disperse itself through the veins
That the life-weary taker may fall dead,

Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's law
Is death to any he that utters them.

Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness
And fearest to die?

Famine is in thy cheeks,

Need and oppression starveth in thy eyes,
Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back:

The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law;
The world affords no law to make thee rich;

Then be not poor, but break it and take this.

My poverty but not my will consents.

I pay thy poverty and not thy will.

Put this in any liquid thing you will
And drink it off, and if you had the strength

Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight.

There is thy gold -

worse poison to men's souls,

Doing more murder in this loathsome world,

Than these poor compounds
that thou mayst not sell.

I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none.

Holy Franciscan friar, brother, ho!

Welcome from Mantua. What says Romeo?

Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.

Going to find a barefoot brother out,

One of our order, to associate me

Here in this city visiting the sick,
And finding him,

the searchers of the town,
Suspecting that we were both in a house

Where the infectious pestilence did reign,

Seal'd up the doors, and would not let us forth,
So that my speed to Mantua there was stay'd.

Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo?

I could not send it - here it is again-
Nor get a messenger to bring it thee,

So fearful were they of the infection.

Unhappy fortune!

By my brotherhood,
This letter was not nice, but full of charge,

Of dear import; and the neglecting it
May do much danger.

Friar John, go hence,

Get me an iron crow and bring it straight
Unto my cell.

(Stammers) Brother, I'll go and bring it thee.

Now, must I to the monument alone.

Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake.

She will beshrew me much that Romeo
Had had no notice of these accidents;

But I will write again to Mantua,
And keep her at my cell till Romeo come -

Poor living corse,
clos'd in a dead man's tomb!

PARIS: Give me thy torch, boy.

Hence, and stand aloof.

Sweet flower,

with flowers thy bridal bed I strew

(O, woe! Thy canopy is dust and stones)

With which sweet water nightly I will dew;

Or, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans.

The obsequies that I for thee will keep

Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.

(Boy whistles)

The boy gives warning
something doth approach.

What cursed foot wanders this way tonight
To cross my obsequies and true love's rite?

What, with a torch? Muffle me, night, awhile.

Give me the light.

Upon thy life I charge thee,
Whate'er thou hearest or seest, stand all aloof

And do not interrupt me in my course.

But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry
n what I farther shall intend to do,

By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint
And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs.

The time and my intents are savage-wild,

More fierce and more inexorable far
Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.

I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.

Take thou that.

Live, and be prosperous;

and farewell, good fellow.

For all this same, I'll hide me hereabout.

His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.

Thou detestable maw,

thou womb of death,

Gorg'd with the dearest morsel of the earth,

Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws open,

And in despite I'll cram thee with more food.

(Opens tomb)

This is that banish'd haughty Montague
That murd'red my love's cousin - with which grief

It is supposed the fair creature died -

And now is come to do some villainous shame
To the dead bodies.

I will apprehend him.

Stop thy unhallowed toil, vile Montague!

Can vengeance be pursu'd further than death?

Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee.

Obey, and go with me; for thou must die.

I must indeed; and therefore came I hither.

Good gentle youth, tempt not a desp'rate man.

Put not another sin upon my head
By urging me to fury.

O, be gone!

By heaven, I love thee better than myself,
For I come hither arm'd against myself.

Stay not, be gone.

Live, and hereafter say
A madman's mercy bid thee run away.

I do defy thy conjuration
And apprehend thee for a felon here.

Wilt thou provoke me?

Then have at thee, boy!

I am slain!

If thou be merciful,
Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet.

n faith, I will. Let me peruse this face.

Mercutio's kinsman, noble County Paris!

What said my man when my betossed soul
Did not attend him as we rode?

I think he said Paris should have married Juliet.

Said he not so? Or did I dream it so?

Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet
To think it was so?

O, give me thy hand,

One writ with me in sour misfortune's book!

I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave.

I will go call the watch.

A grave?

O, no, a lanthorn, slaught'red youth,

For here lies Juliet,

and her beauty makes
This vault a feasting presence full of light.

O, my love!

(Sobs)

My wife!

Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.

Thou art not conquer'd.

Beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,

And death's pale flag is not advanced there.

Tybalt...

liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?

O, what more favour can I do to thee
Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain

To sunder his that was thine enemy?

Forgive me, cousin.

Ah, dear Juliet,

Why art thou yet so fair?

Shall I believe
That unsubstantial Death is amorous,

And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
Thee here in dark to be his paramour?

For fear of that I still will stay with thee
And never from this palace of dim night depart.

O, here, here will I stay
With worms that are thy chambermaids.

Here will I set up my everlasting rest
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars

From this world-wearied flesh.

Eyes, look your last!

Arms, take your last embrace!

And, lips,

O, you, the doors of breath,
seal with a righteous kiss

A dateless bargain to engrossing death!

Come, bitter conduct;

come, unsavoury guide!

Here's to my love!

(Cries out)

Thus with a kiss...

I die.

FRIAR: Saint Francis be my speed!

How oft tonight
Have my old feet stumbled at graves!

Who's there?

Here's one, a friend,
and one that knows you well.

Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my friend,

What torch is yond that vainly lends its light
To grubs and eyeless skulls?

As I discern,
It burneth in the Capels' monument.

It doth so, holy sir; and there's my master,
One that you love.

- Who is it?
- Romeo.

- How long hath he been there?
- Full half an hour.

- Go with me to the vault.
- I dare not, sir.

My master knows not but I am gone hence,

And fearfully did menace me with death
If I did stay to look on his intents.

Stay then; I'll go alone.

Fear comes upon me.

O, much I fear some ill unthrifty thing.

Alack, alack, what blood is this that stains
The stony entrance of this sepulchre?

What mean these masterless and gory swords

To lie discolour'd by this place of peace?

Romeo!

O, pale!

Who else? What, Paris too?

And steep'd in blood? Ah, what an unkind hour

Is guilty of this lamentable chance!

The lady stirs.

O, comfortable friar! Where is my lord?

I do remember well where I should be,

And there I am.

I hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest
Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep.

A greater power than we can contradict

Hath thwarted our intents.

Come, come away.
Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;

And Paris too. Come, I'll dispose of thee
Among a sisterhood of holy nuns.

Stay not to question, for the watch is coming.

Come, go, good Juliet.

I dare no longer stay.

Go, get thee hence, for I will not away.

What's here?

A cup, clos'd in my true love's hand?

Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end.

O, churl! Drunk all, and left no friendly drop
To help me after?

I will kiss thy lips.
Haply some poison yet doth hang on them

To make me die with a restorative.

Thy lips are warm!

This is the place.

There, where the torch doth burn.

Yea, noise?

Then I'll be brief.

O, happy dagger!

This is thy sheath;

there rust, and let me die.

The ground is bloody.

Search about the churchyard.

Go, some of you; whoe'er you find attach.

Here's Romeo's man.
We found him in the churchyard.

Hold him in safety till the Prince come hither.

What misadventure is so early up,
That calls our person from our morning rest?

(Gasping and anxious chattering)

What should it be, that is so shrieked abroad?

The people in the streets cry "Romeo",
Some "Juliet", and some "Paris";

and all run,
With open outcry, toward our monument.

What fear is this that startles in our ears?

Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain;

Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before,
Warm and new kill'd.

(Hushed chattering)

Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while,

Till we can clear these ambiguities.

Search, seek, and know
how this foul murder comes.

Where are the parties of suspicion?

I am the greatest, able to do least,

And here I stand, both to impeach and purge
Myself condemned and myself excus'd.

Then say at once what thou dost know in this.

Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet;

(Screams)

Oh, heavens! Oh, wife!
Look how our daughter bleeds.

This dagger is mista'en, for, lo, his house
Is empty on the back of Montague,

And it missheathed in my daughter's bosom!

O, me!

This sight of death is as a bell
That warns my old age to a sepulchre.

Come, Montague;

for thou art early up
To see thy son and heir more early down.

Alas, my liege, my wife is dead tonight!

Grief of my son's exile hath stopp'd her breath.

What further woe conspires against my age?

Look, and thou shalt see.

(Sobs)

O, thou untaught! What manners is in this,

To press before thy father to a grave?

Where be these enemies?

Capulet,

Montague,

See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,

That heaven finds means
to kill your joys with love!

And I, for winking at your discords too,
Have lost a brace of kinsmen.

All are punish'd.

O, brother Montague, give me thy hand.

This is my daughter's jointure, for no more
Can I demand.

But I can give thee more;
For I will raise her statue in pure gold,

That whiles Verona by that name is known,
There shall no figure at such rate be set

As that of true and faithful Juliet.

As rich shall Romeo's by his lady's lie -

Poor sacrifices of our enmity!

A glooming peace this morning with it brings.

The sun for sorrow will not show his head.

Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;

Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished;

For never was a story of more woe

Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.