Original subtitles

O you, comrade Vassillo

Who doth live in her happy home

O you, comrade Vassillo

Who doth live in her happy home

O bid the lady good day, yes

Bid her happy fortune, O come to the window now

Or I shall die!

O bid the lady good day, yes

Bid her happy fortune, O come to the window now

Or I shall die! Or I shall die!

Or I shall die!

Two households both alike indignity,

(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-crost lovers, take their life:

Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows,

Doth with their death bury their Parents' strife.

The fearful passage of their death-markt love,

And the continuance of their Parents' rage:

Which but their children's end nought 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, I'll carry no coals.

No, for if you do, then you should be a collier.

If I be in choler, I'll draw.

Ay, while you live, draw your neck out of the Collar.

I strike quickly being mov'd.

But thou art not quickly mov'd to strike.

A dog of the house of Montague moves me.

To move is to stir,

and to be valiant, is to stand:

therefore, if thou art mov'd, thou't run away.

A dog of that house shall move me to stand.

I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montagues.

That shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.

That's true, and therefore I will thrust Montague's men from the wall,

and thrust his maids to the walls.

Nay, thou shalt see I am a tall piece of flesh.

Tis well thou art not fish.

The quarrel is between our masters, and us their men.

'Tis all one.

I'll play the tyrant:

I'll first begin with the maids, and off with their heads.

- The heads of the Maids? - Ay, the heads of the Maids,

or their Maiden-heads, take it in what sense thou wilt.

Nay, let them take it in sense that feel it.

Me they shall feel while I am able to stand.

Draw thy tool, here comes two of the house of the Montagues.

My naked weapon is out.

- 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, and let them take it as they list.

I'll tell thee what I'll do: as I go by, I will bite my thumb at them,

which is disgrace to them, if they bear it.

Content, go thou by and bite thy thumb, and I'll come after and frown.

- Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? - I bite my thumb. 62 00:03:31,364 --> 00:03:33,1000 - Ay, but is't at us? - Is the law of our side if I say ay?

- No. - Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir: but I bite my thumb, sir.

Do you quarrel, sir?

Quarrel, sir? No, sir.

But if you do sir, I am for you, I serve as good a man as you.

- No better? - Well, sir.

Say better: here comes one of my master's kinsmen.

- Yes, better, sir. - You lie.

Draw if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.

Part fools, put up your swords, you know not what you do.

What art thou drawn, among these heartless hinds?

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:

Have at thee coward.

What noise is this? Bring 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.

Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,

profaners of this neighbour-stained steel

Will they not hear?

What, ho!

You men, you beasts:

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 broils, 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,

Cankered with peace, to part your cankered hate.

If ever you disturb our streets again,

Your lives shall pay the ransom of your fault.

For this time all the rest depart away:

You, Capulet, shall go along with me,

And Montague, come you this afternoon,

To know our farther pleasure in this case:

Once more on pain of death, all men depart.

Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?

Speak nephew, were you by when it began?

Here were the servants of your adversary,

And yours, close fighting ere I did approach,

O where is Romeo, saw you him to day?

Right glad I am, he was not at this fray.

Madam, an hour before the worshipped sun,

Peer'd forth the golden window of the east,

A troubled mind drove me to walk abroad.

So early walking did I see your son:

Towards him I made, but he was ware of me,

And drew into the thicket of the wood;

I, measuring his affections by my own,

Which then most sought where most might not be found -

Being one too many by my weary self - Pursued my humour, not pursuing his

And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.

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.

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 my self and many other friends.

Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,

We would as willingly give cure, as know.

See where he comes,

so please you step aside, I'll know his grievance, or be much denied.

I would thou were so happy by thy stay, to hear true shrift.

Come madam, let's away.

- Good morrow, Cousin. - Is the day so young?

- But new struck nine. - Aye me, sad hours seem long:

Was that my father that went hence so fast?

It was: what sorrow 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 path-ways 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,

Still waking sleep, that is not what it is:

This love feel I, that feel no love in this.

- Do'st thou not laugh? - No, coz, I rather weep.

- Good heart, at what? - At thy good heart's oppression.

Why such is love's transgression:

Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,

Which thou wilt propagate to have it press'd with more of thine -

this grief that thou hast shown,

Doth add more grief, to too much of mine own.

Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs,

Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lover's eyes,

Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears,

What is it else? A madness, most discreet,

A choking gall, and a preserving sweet:

Farewell, coz.

Soft I will go along.

And if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

Tut I have lost my self, 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?

Why no: but sadly tell me who.

In sadness cousin, I do love a woman.

I aimed so near, when I suppos'd you lov'd.

A right good mark man, 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,

she hath Dian's wit: And in strong proof of chastity well arm'd,

From Cupid's childish bow she lives unharm'd.

She will not stay the siege of loving terms,

Nor bide th'encounter of assailing eyes,

Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold.

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.

Teach me how I should forget to think.

By giving liberty unto thine eyes, examine other beauties.

'Tis the way to call hers (exquisite!) in question more.

He that is strucken blind, cannot forget

The precious treasure of his eye-sight 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.

I will 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 liv'd at odds so long:

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

What should I say more than I said before?

My child is yet a stranger in the world,

She hath not seen the change of fourteen years,

Let two more summers wither in their pride,

Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.

Younger than she are happy mothers made.

And too soon marr'd are those so early made:

Earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she,

She's the hopeful lady of my earth.

But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,

My will to her consent is but a part,

And she agreed within her scope of choice

Lies my consent, and fair according voice.

This night I hold an old 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 tonight look you to behold,

Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light.

Where are you, sirrah?

Go trudge about through fair Verona, find those persons out,

Whose names are written here, and to them say,

My house and welcome, on their pleasure stay.

Find them out whose names are written here,

and yet I know not who are written here.

I must to the learned to learn of them.

It is written, that the shoe-maker should meddle with his yard,

and the tailor with his last,

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

I must to the learned. In good time.

Take thou some new infection to the eye,

And the rank poison of the old will die.

Your plantain leaf is excellent for that.

- For what I pray thee? - For your broken shin.

Why, Romeo, art thou mad?

Not mad, but bound more than a mad man is:

Shut up in prison, kept without my food,

Whipped and tormented: and -

- Good e'en, good fellow. - God gi'good e'en.

I pray, sir, can you read?

Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.

Perhaps you have learn'd it without book:

but I pray, can you read any thing you see?

Ay, if I know the letters and the language.

Ye say honestly, rest you merry.

Stay fellow, I can read.

Signor Martino, and his wife and daughter:

County Anselm and his beauteous sisters:

the Lady widow of Utruvio,

Signor Placentio, and his lovely nieces:

Mercutio and his brother Valentine:

my fair niece Rosaline,

Livia,

Seigneur Valentio, and his cousin Tybalt:

Lucio and the lively Helena.

A fair assembly. Whither should they come?

- Up. - Whither? To supper?

- To our house. - Whose house?

My master's.

Indeed, I should have asked you that before.

Now I'll tell you without asking.

My master is the great rich Capulet,

and if you be not of the house of Montagues,

I pray come and crush a cup of wine.

Rest you merry.

At this same ancient feast of Capulet's

Sups the fair Rosaline, whom thou so loves:

Go thither and with unattainted eye,

Compare her face with some that I shall show,

And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.

When the devout religion of mine eye

Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire.

One fairer than my love! the all-seeing sun

Ne'er saw her match, since first the world begun.

No, 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 splendor of mine own.

Nurse, where's my daughter?

Call her forth to me.

Now, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old I bad 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 remembered 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 yet to my teen be it spoken,

I have but four, she's not fourteen.

How long is it now to Lammas-tide?

A fortnight and odd days.

Even or odd, of all days in the year

Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen.

Susan & 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,

That shall she, marry, I remember it well.

'Tis since the earth-quake now eleven years,

And she was wean'd - I never shall forget it -

Of all the days of the year, upon that day;

For I had then laid worm-wood to my dug,

Sitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall.

My Lord and you were then at Mantua -

Nay, I do bear a brain. But as I said,

When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple

Of my dug, and felt it bitter, pretty fool,

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

Shake quoth the dove-house, 'twas no need, I trow,

To bid me trudge.

And since that time it is eleven year,

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

She could have run, and waddled all about;

For even the day before she broke her brow,

And then my husband - God be with his soul,

A' was a merry man - took up the child.

'Dost thou fall forward, Juliet?

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

And by my holy-dam, the pretty wretch left crying, and said 'Ay'.

To see now how a jest shall come about.

I warrant, and I should live a thousand years,

I never should forget it.

'Wilt thou not, Juliet?'

the pretty fool, it stinted, and cried 'Ay'.

Enough of this, I pray thee, hold thy peace.

Yes, Madam, yet I cannot choose but laugh,

To think it should leave crying, and say 'Ay';

And yet I warrant it had upon it brow

A bump as big as a young cockrel's stone;

'Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age,

Wilt thou not, Jule?' It stinted and said 'Ay'.

And stint thou too, I pray thee Nurse, say I.

Peace, I have done:

God mark thee to his grace,

Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed,

And I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.

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 had'st sucked 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 wife.

A man young lady, lady, such a man as all the world.

Why, 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 several lineament,

And see how one another lends content:

And what obscur'd in this fair volume lies,

Find written in the margent of his eyes.

This precious book of love, this unbound lover,

To beautify him, only lacks a cover.

The fish lives in the sea, and 'tis much pride

For fair without, the fair within to hide:

That book in many's eyes doth share the glory,

That in gold clasps, locks in the golden story:

So shall you share all that he doth possess,

By having him, making your self no less.

No less, nay bigger: 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,

Then your consent gives strength to make it fly.

Madam, the guests are come, supper serv'd up, you call'd for,

my young lady asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry,

and all things in extremity:

make hence, for I must be gone to wait.

I beseech you follow straight.

We follow thee. Juliet, the County stays.

Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.

And you must submit to your master lady if you wish to learn

And you must submit to your master...

What shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?

Or shall we on without apology?

The date is out of such prolixity,

We'll have no Cupid hoodwinked with a scarf,

Bearing a Tartars painted bow of lath,

Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;

Nor no without-book prologue faintly spoke,

After the prompter, for our entrance.

But let them measure us by what they will,

We'll measure them a measure, and be gone.

Give me the torch, I am not for this ambling.

Being but heavy I will bear the light.

Nay, gentle Romeo, I must have you dance.

Not I, believe me.

You have dancing shoes With nimble soles;

I have a soul of lead

So stakes me to the ground, I cannot move.

You are a lover, borrow Cupid's wings,

And soar with them above a common bound.

I am too sore enpearced 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 boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

If love be rough with you, be rough with love,

Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.

Give me a case to put my visage in,

A visor for a visor, what care I

What curious eye doth quote deformities:

Here are the beetle-brows shall blush for me.

Come, knock and enter, and no sooner in,

But every man betake him to his legs.

A torch for me, let wantons light of heart

Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels:

For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase,

I'll be the candle-holder and look on,

The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done.

If thou art dun, we'll draw thee from the mire -

Or save your reverence love - wherein thou stickest,

Up to the ears, come we burn daylight here.

- Nay, that's not so. - I mean, sir, in delay,

We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day:

Take our good meaning, for our judgement sits

Five times in that, ere once in our five wits.

And we mean well in going to this mask,

- But 'tis no wit to go. - Why may one ask?

I dreamt a dream tonight.

So did I.

Well what was yours?

That dreamers often lie.

In bed asleep while they do dream things true.

Ah, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you:

Queen Mab, what's she?

She is the fairies midwife, and she comes

In shape no bigger than an agate-stone,

On the fore-finger of an alderman, drawn with a team of little atomies,

Over men's noses as they lie asleep.

Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners legs:

The cover of the wings of grasshoppers;

Her traces of the smallest spider's web,

Her collars of the moonshine's wat'ry beams,

Her whip of crickets bone, the lash of film;

Her waggoner, a small gray-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,

Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,

Time out of mind, the fairies coach-makers.

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 breath with sweetmeats tainted are.

Sometime she driveth o'er a lawyer's lap,

And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;

And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,

Tickling a parson's nose as he lies asleep,

And then dreams he of another benefice.

Sometime she driveth o'er a soldiers neck,

And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,

Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,

Of healths five fathoms deep; and then anon

Drums in his ears, at which he starts and wakes,

And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, and sleeps again.

This is the very Mab

That plaits the manes of horses in the night:

And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs,

Which once untangled much misfortune bodes.

This is the hag,

when maids lie on their backs,

That presses them, and learns them first to bear,

Making them women of good carriage.

This is she -

Peace, peace, Mercutio peace,

Thou talk'st of nothing.

True,

I talk of dreams:

Which are the children of an idle brain,

Begot of nothing, but vain fantasy,

Which is as thin of substance as the air,

And more inconstant than the wind, which woos

Even now the frozen bosom of the north:

And being anger'd,

puffs away from thence,

Turning his face the dew-dropping south.

Come, come.

This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves,

Supper is done, and we shall come too late.

I fear too early,

for my mind misgives,

Some consequence yet hanging in the stars,

Shall bitterly begin his fearful date with this night's revels.

But he that hath the steerage of my course,

Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen.

Strike Drum.

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

He shift a trencher? He scrape a trencher?

When good manners shall lie in one or two men's hands,

and they unwasht too, 'tis a foul thing.

Away with the jointstools. Remove the court-cupboard.

Look to the plate - good thou, save me a piece of marchpane -

and as thou lovest me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone, and Nell.

Potpan.

Potpan.

Ay, boy, ready.

You are looked for, and called for, asked for, and sought for, in the great chamber.

Well, we cannot be here and there too. Cheerly boys, be brisk awhile,

and the longer liver take all.

You are welcome, gentlemen, welcome, gentlemen.

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

Aha 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?

You are welcome, gentlemen,

I have seen the day that I have worn a visor, who could tell

A whispering tale in 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.

Turn!

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

For you and I are past our dancing days:

How long is it now since you and I were in a mask?

By lady, sir, 'tis thirty years at least.

What, man! 'tis not so much, 'tis not so much,

'Twas since the marriage of Lucentio,

Come Pentecost as quickly as it will,

Some five and twenty years, and then we masked.

It's more, it's more, his son is elder far.

His son is at least thirty.

Will you tell me that? It cannot be so,

His son was but a ward two year ago.

- Youth, i'faith. - Youth's a jolly thing.

What lady is that which doth enrich the hand of yonder knight?

I know not, sir.

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!

It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night,

As a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear:

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear:

So shines a snow-white dove trooping with crows,

As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows;

The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand,

And touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.

Did my heart love till now?

Forswear it sight,

I never saw true beauty till this night.

This, by his voice, should be a Montague.

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

To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?

Now by the stock and honour of my kin,

To strike him dead, I hold it not a sin.

Why, how now, coz, 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 not? - 'Tis he, that villain, Romeo.

Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone,

He 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.

Therfore be patient, take no note of him.

It is my will, the which if thou respect,

Show a fair presence, and put off these frowns,

An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.

It fits when such a villain is a guest;

- I'll not endure him. - He shall be endu'rd.

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 here among my guests:

You'll set cock-a-hoop, you'll be the man.

Why uncle, 'tis a shame.

Go to, You are a saucy boy. Is't so indeed?

This trick will scathe you one day - 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, cheerly, my hearts!

Patience perforce, with wilful choler meeting,

Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.

I will withdraw, but this intrusion shall

Now seeming sweet convert to bitterest gall.

If I profane with my unworthiest hand,

This holy shrine,

the gentle sin is this,

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand,

To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much.

Which mannerly devotion shows in this,

For saints have hands, that pilgrims' hands do touch,

And palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss.

Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

O then, dear Saint, let lips do what hands do,

They pray (grant thou) lest faith turn to despair.

Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.

Then move not while my prayers effect I take:

Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purg'd.

Then have my lips the sin that they have took.

Sin from my lips?

O trespass sweetly urg'd! Give me my sin again.

You kiss by the book.

Madam, your mother craves a word with you.

What is her mother?

Marry batchelor, Her mother is the lady of the house,

And a good lady, and a virtuous, and a wise,

I nursed her daughter that you talked withal:

I tell you, he that can lay hold of her,

Shall have the chinks.

Is she a Capulet?

O dear account! My life is my foe's debt.

Away, be gone, the sport is at the best.

Ay, so I fear, the more is my unrest.

I pray you, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone,

We have a trifling foolish banquet towards:

I pray you, let me entreat you.

Is it e'en so?

Why then, honest gentlemen, I thank you, good night:

I'll to my chamber. Lights - To my chamber.

I promise you, but for your company, I would have been abed an hour ago.

Oh, by my fai' it waxes late. I'll to my rest.

Come hither, Nurse, what's he that follows here 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 is this to me,

That I must love a loathed enemy.

What's this? What's that?

Nothing, Nurse, but a rhyme I learnt even now of one I danced with.

- Juliet. - Anon, anon:

Come, your mother stays for you; I'll go along with you.

Let's away, the strangers all are gone.

Now old desire doth in his death bed lie,

And young affection gapes to be his heir,

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

With tender Juliet matched, is now not fair.

Now Romeo is beloved, 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 meat from fearful hooks:

Being held a foe, he may not have access

To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear,

And she as much in love, her means much less,

To meet her new beloved any where.

But passion lends them power, time, means to meet,

Temp'ring extremities with extreme sweet.

Can I go forward, when my heart is here?

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

Romeo!

My Cousin, Romeo!

Romeo!

Dost thou hear, he is wise.

Upon my life, he hath stolen him home to bed.

He ran this way and leapt this orchard wall.

Call, good Mercutio.

Call?

Nay, I'll conjure too.

Romeo!

Humours!

Madman!

Passions!

Lover!

Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh,

Speak but one rhyme and I am satisfied.

Cry me but 'Ay me',

pronounce but 'love' and...

- Love, love, shove... - Move, nove, pove...

- stove... - rove...

- Dove. - Love, dove.

Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,

One nickname for her purblind son and heir,

Young Abraham Cupid he that shot so true,

When King Cophetua lov'd the beggar maid;

He hears me not.

He stirreth not.

He moveth not.

The ape is dead, and I must conjure him,

I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes,

By her high forehead, and her scarlet lips,

By her fine foot, straight leg, and...

..quivering thigh,

And the domains that there adjacent lie,

That in thy likeness thou appear to us.

If he do hear thee, thou wilt anger him.

Tut, this cannot anger him.

Marry, if one should raise a spirit in his mistress' circle,

Of some strange fashion,

make it there to stand till she conjured it and laid it down.

That were some spite.

My invocation is fair and honest, and in his mistress' name,

I conjure only but to raise up...

..him.

Well,

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,

As maids call medlars when they laugh alone.

O, Romeo, that she were,

O, that she were

An open arse, and thou...

..a popp'ring pear.

Romeo,

goodnight,

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

Come,

Shall we go? For 'tis in vain

To seek him here that means not to be found.

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,

That 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,

but 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 day-light 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, now 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.

Oh, speak again, bright angel, for thou art

As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,

As is a winged messenger of heaven.

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 thy self, though not a Montague.

What's Montague?

It is nor arm, nor face,

nor hand, nor foot, 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.

Romeo, doff thy name,

And for thy name which is no part of thee,

Take all my self.

I take thee at thy word:

Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'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 saint, 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'er perch these walls,

For stony limits cannot hold love out,

And what love can do, that dares love attempt:

Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.

If they do see thee, they will murder thee.

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.

For 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 washed with the farthest sea,

I should adventure for such merchandise.

Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face,

Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek,

For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight.

Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny

What I have spoke, but farewell compliment -

Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say 'ay',

And I will take thy word; but if thou swear'st,

Thou mayst prove false.

At lover's perjuries they say Jove laughs.

Ah 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.

In 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 passion.

Therefore pardon me,

And not impute this yielding to light love,

Which the dark night hath so discovered.

Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear,

The tips with silver all these fruit tree tops

O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,

Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

- Now by - - Nay, do not swear at all:

Or if thou wilt,

swear by thy gracious self,

Which is the god of my idolatry, and I'll believe thee.

- If my heart's dear love - - Do not swear.

Though I do joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to night,

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 goodnight: Goodnight as sweet repose and rest,

Come to thy heart, as that within my breast.

O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

What satisfaction can'st thou have tonight?

The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.

I gave thee mine before thou did'st 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:

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 afeared,

Being in night, all this is but a dream,

Too flattering sweet to be substantial.

Three words, dear Romeo, and goodnight indeed.

If that thy bent of love be honourable,

Thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow,

By one that I'll procure to come to thee,

Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite,

And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay,

And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.

- Madam. - I come.

But if thou meanest not well, I do beseech thee -

- Madam! - By and by I come -

To cease thy strife, and leave me to my grief,

- Tomorrow will I send. - So thrive my soul.

A thousand times goodnight.

A thousand times the worse to want thy light,

Love goes towards 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.

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? - My nyas.

- What a clock tomorrow shall I send? - At the hour of nine.

I will not fail; 'tis twenty year 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 his hand,

And with a silken 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:

Goodnight, goodnight.

Parting is such sweet sorrow,

That I shall say 'goodnight', till it be morrow.

Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast.

Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest.

Silent the forests, the streams

Hence will I to my ghostly father's close cell,

His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.

Winds in their caves unblustering

At peace

Slumber the night

And white its moon of deepest quiet

So, now like secrets

Let us lie

Locked in love and its sweetness

Love hath no breath

No voice

No sound a kiss

No voice or sound

My sighs

The gray ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night,

Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light:

And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels,

From forth day's path, and Titan's burning wheels:

Now ere the sun advance his burning eye,

The day to cheer, and night's dank dew to dry,

I must upfill this osier cage of ours,

With baleful weeds, and precious juiced flowers.

O mickle is the powerful grace that lies

In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities:

For nought so vile, that on the earth doth live,

But to the earth some special good doth give.

Nor ought so good, but strain'd from that fair use,

Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,

And vice sometime by action dignified.

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, stays all senses with the heart.

Two such opposed kings encamp them still,

In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will:

And where the worser is predominant,

Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.

Good morrow, Father.

Benedicite.

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?

Young son, it argues a distempered head,

So soon to bid goodmorrow to thy bed.

Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,

And where care lodges, sleep will never lie:

But where unbruised youth with unstuffed brain

Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.

Therefore thy earliness doth me assure,

Thou art uprous'd with some distemperature;

Or if not so, then here I hit it right.

Our Romeo hath not been in bed tonight.

That last was true; the sweeter rest was mine.

God pardon sin! Wert thou with Rosaline?

With Rosaline, my ghostly Father?

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

That's my good son, but where hast thou been then?

I'll tell thee ere thou ask it me again:

I have been feasting with mine enemy,

Where on a sudden one hath wounded me,

That's by me wounded: both our remedies

Within thy help and holy physic lies.

Be plain, good Son, and homely in thy drift,

Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.

Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set,

On the fair daughter of rich Capulet:

As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;

And all combin'd, save what thou must combine

By holy marriage. When and where, and how,

We met, we wooed, and made exchange of vow:

I'll tell thee as we pass, but this I pray,

That thou consent to marry us to day.

Holy Saint Francis, what a change is here?

Is Rosaline that thou didst love so dear

So soon forsaken? Young men's love then lies

Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.

Jesu Maria, what a deal of brine hath washt thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline?

Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit,

Of an old tear that is not washt off yet.

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 in, another out to have.

I pray thee, chide me not.

Her I love now

Doth grace for grace, and love for love allow:

The other did not so.

O, she knew well,

Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell:

But come, young waverer, come go with me,

In one respect, I'll thy assistant be:

For this alliance may so happy prove,

To turn your households' 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 to night?

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

That same pale hard-hearted wench,

that Rosaline torments him so, that 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-boys butt-shaft;

and is he a man to encounter Tybalt?

Why, what is Tybalt?

He's more than prince of cats, I can tell you.

He's the courageous captain of compliments.

He fights as you sing pricksong,

keeps time, distance, and proportion;

he rests me 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.

Ah, the immortal Passado,

the Punto reverso, the Hai!

The what?

The pox of these antic, lisping, affecting phantasticoes!

These new tuners of accent!

'By Jesu, a very good blade, a very tall man, a very good whore'.

Why, grandsire, is not this a lamentable thing,

that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies,

these fashion mongers, these 'pardon-me's,

who stand so much on the new form,

that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench.

O, their bones, their bones!

Here comes Romeo.

Without his roe, like a dried herring.

Flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified?

Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in.

Laura to his lady was a kitchen wench,

Dido a dowdie,

Cleopatra a gipsy,

Helen and Hero, hildings and harlots.

Bonjour, Signor Romeo

there's a French salutation to your French slop:

you gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.

Good morrow to you both, what counterfeit did I give you?

The slip, sir, the slip, can you not conceive?

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, such a case as yours,

constrains a man to bow in the hams.

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

A most courteous exposition.

Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.

Pink for flower.

- Right. - Then is my pump well flowered.

Come between us, good Benvolio, my wits faint.

Swits and spurs, swits and spurs, or I'll cry a match.

Nay, if our wits run the wildgoose chase, I am done:

For thou hast more of the wildgoose in one of thy wits,

than I am sure I have in my whole five.

Was I with you there for the goose?

Thou wast never with me for any thing,

when thou wast not there for the goose.

I'll bite thee by the ear for that jest.

Nay, good goose, bite not.

Thy wit is a very bitter-sweeting, it is a most sharp sauce.

And is it not then well serv'd into a sweet-goose?

Now, is not this better 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.

Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.

Thou would'st else have made thy tale large.

Tut, man, thou art deceiv'd, I meant to make it short;

for indeed I was come to the whole depth of my tale

and indeed meant to occupy the argument no longer.

Here's a goodly gear.

A sail, a sail, a sail!

Two, two: a shirt and a smock.

- Peter? - Anon.

My fan, Peter.

Prithee, do, good Peter, to hide her face

for her fan is the fairer of the two?

God ye good morrow, gentlemen.

God ye good e'en, fair gentlewoman.

Is it 'God ye good e'en', I pray you?

'Tis no less, I tell you,

for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon.

Out upon you: what a man are you?

A gentleman, Nurse, that God hath made for himself to mar.

By my troth, well said. 'For himself to mar' quath he.

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?

Mass, well noted, wisely, wisely.

If you be he, sir, I desire some conference with you.

O, belike she means to invite him to some supper.

So ho. A bawd, a bawd, a bawd!

An old hare hoar, and an old hare hoar

Is a very good meat in lent.

But a hare that is hoar is too much for a score,

When it hoars ere it be spent.

Romeo, will you come to your father's? We'll to dinner thither.

I will follow you.

Farewell, ancient lady:

Lady,

lady,

lady.

Marry, farewell.

Pray, what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his rope-ripe?

A gentleman, Nurse, that loves to hear himself talk,

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

And a speak any thing against me, I shall take him down,

and he were lustier than he is.

And if I cannot take him down, I'll find those that shall.

I am none of his flirt-gills.

And thou must stand by too and suffer every knave

to use me at his pleasure.

I see nobody 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.

You know my tool is as soon out as another's, if I see time and...

Now, afore God, he hath so vexed me, that every member about me quivers.

The scurvy jack!

But, as I said, my lady bade me seek you out; what she bid me say,

I will keep to my self: but first let me tell ye,

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

it were a very gross kind of behaviour,

as they say: for the gentlewoman is young.

and therefore, if you should deal double with her,

truly it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman,

and very weak dealing.

Nurse, commend me to thy Lady, tell her I protest.

Good heart, and I'faith I will tell her as much:

Lord, Lord, she shall be a joyful woman.

What wilt thou tell her, Nurse? Thou dost not mark me.

I will tell her, sir, that you do protest;

which as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer.

Bid her devise

Some means to come to shrift this afternoon,

And there she shall at Friar Laurence cell

Be shriev'd and married:

here is for thy pains.

- No, truly, sir, not a penny. - Go to, I say you shall.

This afternoon, sir? Well, she shall be there.

And stay thou, good Nurse, behind the abbey wall,

Within this hour my man shall be with thee,

And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair,

Which to the high top gallant of my joy,

Must be my convoy in the secret night.

Farewell, be trusty and I'll quit thy pains:

Farewell, commend me to thy mistress.

Now, god in heaven bless thee: hark you, sir,

What sai'st thou, my dear Nurse?

Is your man secret, did you ne'er hear say,

two may keep counsel putting one away.

I warrant thee my man's as true as steel.

Well, sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady.

Lord, Lord, when 'twas a little prating thing...

Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter?

Ay, Nurse, what of that?

Both with an R.

Ah, mocker, that's the dog's name.

R is for the - No, I know it begins with some other letter;

and she hath the prettiest sententious of it,

of you and Romeo-semary, Romeo-meo,

Oh, no! That it would do you good to hear it.

Commend me to thy lady.

Ay, a thousand times. Peter?

Anon.

Peter, take my fan...

..and go before. And apace.

The clock struck nine, when I did send the nurse,

In half an hour she promised to return.

Perhaps she cannot meet him:

that's not so: Oh, she is lame!

Love's heralds should be thoughts,

And run more swift than hasty powder fired

Doth hurry from the fearful cannon's mouth.

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'd be as swift in motion as a ball;

My words would bandy her to my sweet love, and his to me,

But old folks, many fain 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.

Now, good sweet Nurse: O Lord, why lookest thou sad?

Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily.

O, I am weary, give me leave awhile,

Fie how my bones ache, O, where's my man?

Give me some acqua-vitae.

I would thou had'st my bones, and I thy news.

Fie, what a jaunt have I had.

O, and my back - o' t' other side.

Lord, Lord, what a case am I in.

But tell me, sweet Nurse, what says Romeo?

Jesu, what haste? Can you not stay a while?

Do you not see that I am out of breath?

How art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath

To say to me, that thou art out of breath?

Is thy news good or bad? Answer to that.

Well, you know not how to choose a man:

Romeo, no, not he - he's nobody -

though his face be better than any man's:

he is not the flower of courtesy, but I'll warrant him as gentle a lamb:

and for a hand, and a foot and a body...

Well, go thy ways wench, thou hast it i'faith.

Lord, lord, how my head beats. What have you dined at home?

What says he of our marriage? What of that?

It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.

Beshrew your heart for sending me about

To catch my death with jaunting up and down.

I'faith: I am sorry that thou art not well.

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

Your love says like an honest gentleman,

And a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome,

And I warrant a virtuous - where is your mother?

Where is my mother?

Why she is within, where should she be?

How oddly thou repliest: Your love says like an honest gentleman:

- Where is your mother? - O, gods, lady dear, are you so hot?

Henceforward do your messages your self.

Nay, stay, sweet Nurse, I do entreat thee now.

What says my love, my lord, my Romeo?

Have you got leave to go to shrift to day?

I have.

Then high you hence to Friar Laurence cell,

There stays a husband to make you a wife:

Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks.

Hie you to church, I must another way,

To fetch a ladder by the which your love

Must climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark:

I am the drudge, and toil in your delight:

But you shall bear the 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,

And in their triumph die like fire and powder,

Which as they kiss consume.

Therefore love moderately. Long love doth so,

Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

Here comes the lady.

Oh, 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.

Romeo.

My Juliet.

Welcome.

As do waking eyes,

Closed in night's mists, attend the frolic day,

So Romeo hath expected Juliet, and thou art come.

I am, if I be day, come to my sun. Shine forth and make me fair.

Come, wantons, come, the stealing hours do pass.

Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy

Be heap't like mine, and that thy skill be more

To blason it, then sweeten with thy breath

This neighbour air -

They are but beggars that can count their worth,

But my true love is grown to such excess,

I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.

Defer embracements till some fitter time.

Lead, holy father, all delay seems long.

Make haste, make haste, this ling'ring doth us wrong.

Come, come with me, and we will make short work,

For by your leaves, you shall not stay alone,

Till holy church incorporate two in one.

I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire,

The day is hot, the Capels are 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 those fellows,

that when he comes into the confines of a tavern,

he claps me his sword upon the table,

and says, 'God send me no need of thee':

and by the operation of the next cup of wine,

he draws it on the drawer, when indeed there is no need.

Am I like such a fellow?

Come, come,

thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood, as any in Italy:

and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be mov'd.

- And what to? - Nay, there were two such

we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other.

Didst thou not fall out with a man

for cracking nuts,

having no other reason, than thou hadst hazel eyes?

What eye, but such an eye, would spy out such a quarrel?

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

because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the Sun.

And yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling?

By my head, here comes the Capulets.

By my heel, I care not.

Follow me close, for I will speak to them.

Gentlemen,

good'en, 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, if you will give me occasion.

Could you not take some occasion without giving?

Mercutio thou consort'st with Romeo.

Consort?

Zounds, 'consort'!

The slave will make fiddlers of us.

What, dost thou make us minstrels?

And thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords:

here's my fiddlestick, here's that shall make you dance.

We talk here in the public haunt of men:

Either withdraw unto some private place,

Or reason coldly of your grievances.

Or else depart, here all eyes gaze on us.

Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.

I will not budge for no man's pleasure, I.

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 into the field, and he may be your follower;

so in that sense your worship may call him 'your man'.

Romeo. The hate 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 know'st 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 can'st 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 stucatto carries it away.

Tybalt, you Rat-catcher,

- will you walk? - What would'st thou have with me?

Nothing, good King of Cats, but one of your nine lives.

That I mean to make bold withal, and as you

shall use me hereafter, dry beat the rest of the eight.

Come! Will you pluck your rapier out of the scabbard?

Make haste, lest mine be about your ears, ere you be aware.

- I am for you. - Gentle Mercutio, put thy Rapier up.

Come, sir,

your Passado.

Draw, Benvolio, beat down their weapons:

Gentlemen, for shame forbear this outrage,

Tybalt,

Mercutio,

the Prince expressly hath forbid this bandying in Verona streets.

Hold, Tybalt, good, Mercutio.

I am hurt.

A plague a both your houses, I am sped: Is he gone?

- Hath he 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.

No: 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door,

but 'tis enough, 'twill serve.

Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.

I am pepper'd, I warrant, for this world:

a plague a 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.

He hath made worm's meat of me.

Why the devil came you between us?

- I was hurt under your arm. - I thought all for the best.

A pox of your houses.

Help me into some house, Benvolio, or I shall faint.

I shall be fairly mounted upon four men's shoulders,

and then some base slave, some sexton, some peasantly rogue,

shall write my epitaph:

That Tybalt came and broke the Prince's laws

And Mercutio was slain for the first and second cause.

I have it, and soundly.

Come, Benvolio, lend me thy hand.

A pox of your houses!

This gentleman, the Prince's near ally,

My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt

In my behalf; my reputation stain'd

With Tybalt's slander - Tybalt that an hour

Hath been my kinsman: O sweet Juliet,

Thy beauty hath made me effeminate,

And in my temper softened 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, what other days must end.

Here comes the furious Tybalt back again.

Alive in triumph, and Mercutio slain?

Away to heaven respective lenity,

And fire and fury be my conduct now.

Now, Tybalt, take that villain back again

Which late thou gav'st me, for Mercutio's soul

Is but a little way above our heads,

And stays 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?

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, my brother's child,

O, Prince, O, cousin, husband,

O, the blood is spill'd of my dear kinsman.

Prince, as thou art true,

For blood of ours, shed blood of Montague.

O cousin, cousin.

Benvolio, who began this bloody fray?

Tybalt here slain, whom Romeo's hand did slay,

Romeo that spoke him fair, bid him bethink

How nice the quarrel was, and urg'd withal

Your high displeasure: all this uttered,

With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow'd

Could not take truce with the unruly spleen

Of Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts

With piercing steel at bold Mercutio's breast,

Who all as hot, turns deadly point to point,

And with a martial scorn, with one hand beats

Cold death aside, and with the other sends

It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity retorts it: Romeo he cries aloud,

'Hold, friends, friends, part', and swifter than his tongue,

His agile arm, beats down their fatal points,

And twixt them rushes, underneath whose arm,

An envious thrust from Tybalt, hit the life

Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled.

But by and by comes back to Romeo,

Who had but newly entertained revenge,

And to it they go like lightning, for ere I could draw to part them,

was stout Tybalt slain:

And as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly:

This is the truth, or let Benvolio die.

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,

Immediately we do exile him hence:

I have an interest in your heart'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.

Bear hence this body, and 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 runaways eyes may wink,

and Romeo leap to these arms, untalked of and unseen.

Lovers can see to do their amorous rights,

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,

Played for a pair of stainless maidenhoods;

Hood my unmann'd blood baiting in my cheeks,

With thy black mantle, till strange love grow 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 upon a raven's back:

Come, gentle night, come, loving blackbrow'd night.

Give me my Romeo,

and when I shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine,

That all the world will be in love with night,

And pay no worship to the garish sun.

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 that hath new robes

And may not wear them, O, here comes my nurse:

And she brings news and every tongue that speaks

But Romeo's name, speaks heavenly eloquence:

Now, Nurse, what news? What hast thou the cords?

Ay, ay, the cords.

- Alack, we are undone, undone. - Ay, me, what news?

Ah, welladay, he's dead, he's dead.

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?

What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?

This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell,

Hath Romeo slain himself?

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 eyes,

God save the mark, here on his manly breast,

A piteous corpse, a bloody piteous corpse:

Pale, pale as ashes, 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.

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 slaughtred? 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 kill'd 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.

Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical:

Dove-feather'd raven, wolvish ravening lamb,

Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st,

Was ever book containing such vile matter

So fairly bound? O that deceit should dwell

In such a gorgeous palace.

There's no trust, no faith, no honesty in men, all perjur'd,

all forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers,

Ah, where's my man? Give me some aqua-vitae.

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

Shame come to Romeo.

Blister'd be thy tongue!

He was not born to shame:

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, did'st thou kill my cousin?

The 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 killed my husband:

All this is comfort,

wherefore weep I then?

Some word there was worser then Tybalt's death

That murdered me - I would forget it fain -

But, oh, 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:

Or if sour woe delights in fellowship,

And needly will be rank'd with other griefs,

Why followed not when she said Tybalt's dead,

Thy father or thy mother, nay, or both,

Which modern lamentation might have mov'd.

But with a rearward following Tybalt's death

Romeo is banished.

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

To that word's death,

Romeo is banished.

To speak that word,

Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,

All slain, all dead:

no words can that woe sound.

Where is my father and my mother, Nurse?

Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corpse,

Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.

Wash they his wounds with tears: mine shall be spent

When theirs are dry for Romeo's banishment.

Come, Nurse, I'll to my wedding bed,

And death, not Romeo, take my maiden head.

Hie to your chamber, I'll find Romeo

To comfort you, I wot well where he is:

Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night,

I'll to him, he is hid at Laurence cell.

O, find him! Give this ring to my true knight,

And bid him come, to take his last farewell.

Romeo, come forth, come forth, thou fearful man,

Affliction is enamor'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 judgement vanish'd from his lips,

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

Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say death:

For exile hath more terror in his look,

Much more than death. Do not say banishment.

Here from Verona art thou banished:

Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.

There is no world without Verona walls,

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 see'st it not.

'Tis torture and not mercy. Heaven is here

Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog,

And little mouse, every unworthy thing

Live here in heaven and may look on her,

But Romeo may not. More validity,

More honourable state, more courtship lives

In carrion flies than Romeo; They may seize

On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand,

And steal immortal blessing from her lips,

But Romeo may not, he is banished.

Flies may do this, but I from this must fly:

They are free men, but I am banished.

Had'st thou no poison mixt, 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.

O then I see, that mad men have no ears.

How should they, when wisemen have no eyes?

Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.

Thou can'st not speak of that thou dost not feel,

Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,

An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,

Doting like me, and like me banished,

Then might'st thou speak, then might'st thou tear thy hair,

And fall upon the ground as I do now,

Taking the measure of an unmade grave.

Arise one knocks, good Romeo, hide thy self.

Not I, unless the breath of heartsick groans

Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes.

Hark how they knock: (Who's there?) Romeo arise,

Thou wilt be taken (Stay a while) stand up:

Run to my study (By and by) God's will

What simpleness is this? (I come, I come).

Who knocks so hard? Whence come you? What's your will?

Let me come in, And you shall know my errand:

- I come from Lady Juliet. - Welcome then.

O holy Friar, tell me holy Friar,

Where's my lady's lord? Where's Romeo?

There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.

O he is even in my Mistress' case,

Just in her case. O woeful sympathy:

Piteous predicament, even so lies she,

Blubb'ring and weeping, weeping and blubb'ring,

Stand up, stand up, stand and you be a man,

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

Why should you fall into so deep an O.

Nurse.

Ah, sir, ah, sir, well, death's the end of all.

Speak'st 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 removed but little from her own?

Do, how is she and where is she and how doth she? And what says

My conceal'd lady to our cancelled love?

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

Shot from the deadly level of a gun,

Did murder her, as that name's cursed hand

Murdered her kinsman. O, tell me, Friar, tell me,

In what vile part of this anatomy

Doth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack

- The hateful mansion. - Hold thy desperate hand:

Art thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art:

Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote

The unreasonable fury of a beast.

Unseemly woman in a seeming man,

And ill-beseeming beast in seeming both,

Thou hast amaz'd me. By my holy order,

I thought thy disposition better temper'd.

Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou slay thy self?

And slay thy lady, that in thy life lies,

By doing damned hate upon thy self?

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 slew'st Tybalt, there art thou happy.

The law that threat'ned death becomes thy friend,

And turns it to exile, there art thou happy.

A pack of blessings light upon thy back,

Happiness courts thee in her best array,

But like a misshaped and sullen wench,

Thou pouts upon thy fortune and thy love:

Take heed, take heed,

for such die miserable.

Go, get thee to thy love as was decreed,

Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her:

But look thou stay not till the watch be set,

For then thou canst not pass to Mantua,

Where thou shalt live till we can find a time

To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,

Beg pardon of thy 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,

And bid her hasten all the house to bed,

Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto.

Romeo is coming.

O, I could have stayed 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, 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, goodnight.

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, goodnight.

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 were born to die.

'Tis very late, she'll not come down tonight:

I promise you, but for your company,

I would have been a bed an hour ago.

These times of woe, afford no times to woo:

Madam, goodnight, commend me to your daughter.

I will, and know her mind early tomorrow,

Tonight, she's mewed up to her heaviness.

Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender

Of my child's love: I think she will be rul'd

In 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.

Monday, ha ha: well, Wednesday is too soon,

A Thursday let it be: 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 look 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:

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 late,

that we may call it early by and by,

Goodnight.

Sweet love the golden morning breaks

All the earth, all the air of love and pleasure speaks

Teach thine arms to embrace

And rosy lips to kiss

And mix our souls

In mutual bliss

In mutual

Bliss

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 yon 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 torch-bearer,

And 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 gray is not the morning's eye,

'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow.

Nor that is not the Lark whose notes do beat

The vaulty heaven so high above our heads,

I have more care to stay, than will to go:

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.

O now be gone, more light and light it grows.

More light and light, more dark and dark our woes.

- Madam. - Nurse.

Your Lady Mother is coming to your chamber,

The day is broke, be wary, look about.

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

Farewell, farewell, one kiss and I'll descend.

Art thou gone so, my lord, my love, my 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

For sweet discourses in our time to come.

O God! I have an ill-divining soul,

Me thinks I see thee, now thou art so low,

As one dead in the bottom of a tomb,

Either my eye-sight fails, or thou look'st pale.

And trust me, love, in my eye so do you:

Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu.

- Ho, daughter, are you up? - Who is't that calls?

It is my Lady Mother.

Is she not down so late, or up so early?

- Where are you, daughter? - What lady, lamb, what Juliet!

- How now, who calls? - It is your mother.

- Why, how now, Juliet? - Madam, I am not well.

Evermore weeping for your cousin's death?

What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?

And if thou could'st, thou could'st 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.

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.

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 renegade 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 -

Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vexed.

Madam, if you could find out but a man

To bear a poison, I should temper it;

That Romeo should upon receipt thereof,

Soon sleep in quiet.

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.

Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child,

One who to put thee from thy heaviness,

Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy,

That thou expects not, nor I looked not for.

What day is that, I pray you?

Marry, my child,

The gallant, young, and noble gentleman,

The County Paris at Saint Peters Church,

Early next Thursday morning must provide

To make you there a glad and joyful bride.

Now by Saint Peters 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 earth 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? In one little body

Thou counterfeits a bark, a sea, a wind:

For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,

Do ebb and flow with tears, the bark thy body is

Sailing in this salt flood; the winds thy sighs,

Who raging with thy tears and they with them,

Without a sudden calm will overset

This 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, wife, take me with you,

How, will she none?

Does she not give us thanks? Is she not proud?

Doth she not count her bless'd,

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 now? How now? Chopp'd logic? What is this?

'Proud', and 'I thank you': and 'I thank you not',

And yet 'not proud'? Mistress minion you,

Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,

But fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next,

To go with Paris to Saint Peters church:

Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.

Out you green sickness baggage, out 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:

God in heaven bless her,

You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.

And why, my lady wisdom? Hold your tongue,

- Go smatter with your gossips, go. - I speak no treason.

- O Godigoden, - May not one speak?

Peace, you mumbling fool,

Go utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl

- For here we need it not. - You are too hot.

God's blessed mother, wife, it makes me mad:

Day, night, hour, tide, time, work, play,

At home, abroad, alone, in company,

Waking or sleeping, and 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 allied,

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, and you will not wed, I'll pardon you.

Graze where you will, you shall not house with me:

Look to't, think on't, I do not use to jest.

Thursday is near, lay hand on heart, advise,

And you be mine, I'll give you to my friend:

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

For by my life, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee,

Nor what is mine shall never do thee good:

Look to't; think on't; I do not use to jest.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,

That sees into the bottom of my grief?

O, sweet my mother, cast me not away,

Delay this marriage, for a month, a week,

Or if you do not, make my marriage bed

In 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?

Comfort me, counsel me:

Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems

Upon so soft a subject as my self.

What saist thou? Hast thou not a word of joy?

Some comfort, Nurse.

Faith, here it is,

Romeo is banished, and all the world to nothing,

He never dares return to challenge you:

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?

And from my soul too, or else beshrew them both.

- Amen. - What?

Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much,

Go in, and tell my lady I am gone,

Having displeas'd my Father, to Laurence cell,

To make confession, and to be absolv'd.

Marry, I will, and this is wisely done.

Ancient damnation,

O most wicked fiend!

Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,

Or to dispraise him with that selfsame 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, my self 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 talked of love,

For Venus smiles not in a house of tears.

Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous

That she doth 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 her self alone,

May be put from her by society.

Now do you know the reason of this haste.

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

Look, sir, here comes the lady towards 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.

Poor soul, thy face is much abus'd with tears.

The tears have got small victory by that:

For it was bad enough before their spite.

Thou wrong'st it more than tears with that report.

That is no slander, sir, which is a truth;

And what I spake, I spake it to my face.

Thy face is mine, and thou hast slandered it.

It may be so, for it is not mine own. Are you at leisure, holy father, now,

Or shall I come to you at evening mass?

My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.

My lord, we must entreat the time alone.

God shield: I should disturb devotion!

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.

O Juliet, I already know thy grief,

It strains me past the compass of my wits:

I hear thou must and nothing may prorogue it,

On Thursday next be married to this county.

Tell me not, friar, that thou hearest of this,

Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it.

God joined 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.

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,

That cop'st with death himself, to scape from it:

And if thou dar'st, I'll give thee remedy.

Oh bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,

From off the battlements of any tower,

Or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk

Where serpents are: chain me with roaring bears,

Or hide me nightly in a charnel house,

O'ercovered quite with dead men's rattling bones,

With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls:

Or lay me in a tomb with one new dead -

Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble -

And I will do it without fear or doubt,

To keep myself a faithful unstained wife

To my dear lord, my dearest Romeo.

Hold then: go home, be merry, agree

To marry Paris: Wednesday is tomorrow,

Tomorrow night look that thou lie alone.

Take thou this vial being then in bed,

And this distilling liquor drink thou off,

When presently through all thy veins shall run,

A cold and drowsy humour: for no pulse

Shall keep his native progress, but surcease:

No warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest.

And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death

Thou shalt continue two and forty hours,

And then awake, as from a pleasant sleep.

Now when the bridegroom in the morning comes,

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

Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault,

Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie.

In the mean time, against thou shalt awake,

Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift,

And hither shall he come, an 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.

Give me,

give me, O tell not me of fear.

Hold get you gone, be strong and prosperous:

In this resolve, I'll send a Friar with speed

To Mantua with my letters to thy lord.

Love give me strength, and strength shall help afford:

Farewell, dear father.

So many guests invite as here are writ.

- Where are you, sirrah? - Here, forsooth.

Go, hire me twenty cunning cooks.

I warrant you, sir, let me alone for that;

I'll know them by licking their fingers.

How canst thou know them so?

Ah, sir, 'tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers:

Therefore he that cannot lick his fingers, goes not with me.

Well, get you gone -

We shall be much unfurnish'd for this time -

What, is my daughter gone to Friar Laurence?

Ay, forsooth.

Well he may chance to do some good on her

A peevish self-will'd harlotry it is.

See, where she comes from shrift with merry look.

How now, my headstrong, where have you been gadding?

Where I have learnt me to repent the sin

Of disobedient opposition

To you and your behests; and am enjoin'd

By holy Laurence, to fall prostrate here,

To beg your pardon.

Pardon, I beseech you,

Henceforward I am ever rul'd by you.

Why that's well said.

Now, before God, this holy reverend father.

All our whole city is much bound unto.

Send for the County, go tell him of this

We'll have this knot knit up tomorrow morning.

I met the youthful lord at Laurence cell,

And gave him what becomed love I might,

Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty.

Why I am glad on't, that's well said, stand up,

This is as't should be,

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.

Methinks on Thursday would be time enough.

And I say we'll have this dispatched tomorrow.

Go one, certify the Count thereof.

I pray, my lord, let it be Thursday.

And I say tomorrow, while she's in the mood.

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

Tush, I will stir about,

And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife:

Go thou to Juliet, help to deck her up,

I'll not to bed tonight, let me alone:

I'll play the huswife for this once.

What ho?

They are all forth. Well. My heart is wondrous glad,

That this same wayward girl is so reclaim'd.

Sleep

Though griefe torment thy body

Sleepe

While musicke banish to the lowest deepe

Thy soul afflicting foe

I pray you

Sleepe

And while thy body rests in slumber

Fly! jealous thoughts

That true affects do cumber

Down to her den of woe

Come, come, what need you anything else?

Ay, those attires are best, but gentle Nurse,

I pray thee leave me to my self tonight.

Well, there's a clean smock under your pillow,

And so good night.

What are you busy ho? Need you my help?

No, madam, so please you, let me now be left alone;

And let the nurse this night sit up with you,

For I am sure, you have your hands full all,

In this so sudden business.

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!

But, 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 -

Knife, lie thou there.

What if it be a poison which the friar

Subtly hath ministered to have me dead,

Lest in this marriage he should 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

Comes to redeem me? There's a fearful point:

Shall I not then be stifled in the vault?

To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,

And there die 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 these many hundred years the bones

Of all my buried ancestors are packed,

Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,

Lies fest'ring in his shroud, 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 forefather's 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 desperate brains.

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,

Romeo,

Romeo,

here's drink:

I drink to thee.

Sleepe

Though griefe torment thy body

Sleepe

While musicke banish to the lowest deepe

Thy soul afflicting foe

I pray you

Sleepe

And while thy body rests in slumber

Fly! jealous thoughts

That true affects do cumber

Down to her den of woe

That's well said.

Hold, take these keys, and fetch more spices, Nurse.

The County will be here immediately.

They call for dates and quinces in the pastry.

Come, stir, stir, stir, the second cock hath crow'd,

The curfew bell hath rung, 'tis three a clock:

Look to the baked meats, good Angelica.

Go you cot-quean, go, get you to bed,

faith you'll be sick tomorrow for this night's watching.

No, not a whit: what? I have watch'd

All night ere now for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick.

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

A jealous hood, a jealous hood, How now, fellow, what have you there?

Forsooth, logs. Go to. Choose drier.

Peter will tell you where to fetch them.

Nay, I warrant, let me alone.

I have a head, I trow, to choose a log.

Well, go thy ways, thou shalt be a loggerhead;

O father, 'tis day.

The County will be here with music straight,

For so he said he would, I hear him near,

Wife, Nurse? What, Nurse, I say?

Go down to Juliet, help to deck her up,

I'll go chat with Paris:

make haste, make haste, make haste, the bridegroom, he is come already:

Mistress! what mistress! Juliet!

Fast, I warrant her, she.

Why, lamb! why, lady?

Fie, you slug-a-bed,

What, not a word?

Ay, 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 must needs wake you:

Lady,

Lady,

Lady?

Alas, alas!

Help, help! My lady's dead!

O, well-a-day, that ever I was born!

Some aqua-vitae, ho! My Lord! my Lady!

- What noise is here? - O lamentable day!

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

O me, 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.

Hah, let me see: out alas she's cold.

Her blood is settled and her joints are stiff.

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 from me hence to make me wail,

Ties up my tongue, and will not let me speak.

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, deflow'red by him.

Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir,

He hath wedded my daughter. 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?

Accurs'd, unhappy, wretched, hateful day,

Most miserable hour, that ere time saw

In lasting labour of his pilgrimage.

But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,

But one thing to rejoice and solace in,

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.

O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!

Never was seen so black a day as this:

O woeful day, O woeful day.

Beguil'd, divorced,

wronged, spited, slain,

Most detestable death, by thee beguil'd,

By cruel, cruel thee, quite overthrown:

O love, O life; not life, but love in death.

Despis'd, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd,

Uncomfortable time, why cam'st thou now

To murder, murder our solemnity?

My child, my child; my soul, and not my child,

Art thou dead? Alack my child is dead,

And with my child, my joys are buried.

Peace ho, for shame! Confusion's cure lives not

In these confusions: heaven and your self

Had part in this fair maid, now heaven hath all,

And all the better is it for the maid:

Your part in her, you could not keep from death,

But heaven keeps his part in eternal life:

The most you sought was her promotion,

For 'twas your heaven, she should be advanc'd,

And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc'd

Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?

Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary

On this fair corse, and as the custom is,

In all her best and sumptuous ornaments,

Convey her where her ancestors lie tombed.

All things that we ordained festival,

Turn from their office to sad funeral:

Our instruments to melancholy bells,

Our solemn cheer to a sad burial feast:

Our solemn hymns, to sullen dirges change:

Our bridal flowers serve for the burial corse:

And all things change them to the contrary.

Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him,

And go, sir Paris, every one prepare

To follow this fair corse unto her grave:

The heavens do lour upon you for some ill:

Move them no more, by crossing their high will.

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

Put up, put up, this is a pitiful case

Ay, by my troth, mistress; it had need be mended.

Musicians, o musicians, heart's ease, heart's ease

And you would have me live, play heart's ease.

Why heart's ease?

O musicians, because my heart itself plays, my heart is full.

O play me some merry dump, to comfort me.

Ah, sir, this is no time to play.

- You will not then? - No.

Then I will give it you, and soundly too.

What will you give us?

No money, on my faith, but the gleek.

I will give you the minstrel.

Then will I give you the serving creature.

Then will I lay the serving creature's dagger on your pate.

I'll carry no crochets,

I'll re you, I'll fa you, I'll sol you.

And you re us, and fa us, we will note you.

Then I will put up my iron dagger and beat you with my wooden wit.

Come, answer me like men:

When griping grief the heart doth wound,

Then music with its silver sound.

Why 'silver sound'? Why 'music with her 'silver sound'?

What say you Simon Catling?

Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.

Pretty, what say you Hugh Rebick?

I say silver sound,

because musicians sound for silver.

What say you James Soundpost?

Faith, I know not what to say.

O I cry you mercy, you are the singer

I'll speak for you; it is music with her silver sound,

because such fellows as you have seldom gold for sounding.

Farewell, fiddlers, farewell.

Farewell and be hanged! Come, let's go.

Come, we'll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner.

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.

Ah, me, how sweet is love itself posses'd,

When but love's shadows are so rich in ioy.

News from Verona! How now, Balthazar?

Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?

How doth my lady? Is my father well?

How doth my lady 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 Capel's monument,

And her immortal soul with heaven lies,

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 even so?

Then I defy you stars!

Thou knowest my lodging, get me ink and paper,

And hire post-horses, I will hence tonight.

I do beseech you, sir, have patience: Your looks are pale and wild -

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, my good Lord.

No matter: Get thee gone,

And hire those horses, I'll be with thee straight.

Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to night:

Lets see for means: O, mischief, thou art swift,

To enter in the thoughts of desperate men:

I do remember an apothecary,

And here abouts a dwells, which late I noted

In tattered weeds, with overwhelming brows,

Culling of simples, meagre were his looks,

Sharp misery had worn him to the bones:

And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,

An allegator stuff'd, and other skins

Of ill-shap'd fishes, and about his shelves,

A beggarly account of empty boxes,

Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,

Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses

Were thinly scattered, to make up a show.

Noting this penury, to my self I said,

An if a man did need a poison now,

Whose sale is present death in Mantua,

Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.

O this same thought did but forerun my need,

And this same needy man must sell it me.

As I remember, this should be the house,

Being holy day, the beggar's shop is shut.

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 dispatch the weary taker's life.

Such drugs I have,

But Mantua's law is death to any he that sells them.

Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness,

And fear'st to die? Famine is in thy cheek,

Need and oppression starveth in thy eye,

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 maist not sell.

I sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none,

Farewell, buy food, and get thy self in flesh.

Come cordial, and not poison, go with me

To Juliet's grave, for there must I use thee.

Holy Franciscan friar, brother,

ho?

This same should be the voice of Friar John.

Welcome from Mantua, what says Romeo?

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

Going to find a bare-foot 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 both were 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 stayed.

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 feareful were they of infection.

Unhappy fortune: by my brotherhood

The 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. - Brother I'll go and bring it thee.

Now must I to the monument alone,

Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake,

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

Give me thy torch, boy, hence and stand aloof,

Yet put it out, for I would not be seen:

Under yond young trees lay thee all along,

Holding thy ear close to the hollow ground,

So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,

But thou shalt hear it: whistle then to me.

Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go.

I will, my lord.

Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew:

O woe, thy canopy is dust and stones,

Which with 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.

My lord!

The boy gives warning, something doth approach,

What cursed foot wanders this way tonight,

To cross my obsequies, and true love's right?

What, with a light? Muffle me night awhile.

Give me that mattock, and the wrenching iron.

Hold, take this letter. Early in the morning

See thou deliver it to my lord and father.

Give me the light; upon thy life I charge thee,

Whate'er thou hear'st or seest, stand all aloof,

And do not interrupt me in my course.

Why I descend into this bed of death,

Is partly to behold my lady's face:

But chiefly to take from her dead finger,

A precious ring, a ring that I must use,

In dear employment. Therefore hence be gone:

But if thou jealous doth return to pry

In what I further shall intend to do,

By heaven I will tear thee joint by joint,

And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs:

The times, 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.

So shalt thou show me friendship.

Take thou that,

Commend me to my father.

Farewell, good fellow.

For all this same, I'll hide me here about,

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 jaw to open,

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

This is that banish'd haughty Montague,

That murdered my love's cousin; with which grief,

It is supposed the fair creature died,

And here is come to do some villanous shame

To the dead bodies: I will apprehend him.

Stop thy unhallowed toil, vile Montague:

Can vengeance be pursued 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 desperate man,

Fly hence and leave me, think upon these gone,

Let them affright thee. O, be gone!

By heaven I love thee better than my self,

For I come hither arm'd against my self:

Stay not, be gone, live, and hereafter say,

A mad man's mercy bid thee run away.

I do defy thy conjurations, and apprehend thee for a felon here.

Wilt thou provoke me? Then have at thee boy.

O, I am slain!

If thou be merciful, lay me with Juliet.

In faith, I will.

Let me peruse this face:

Mercutio's kinsman, noble County Paris,

O give me thy hand,

One, writ with me in sour misfortune's book.

I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave.

A grave? O no! a lantern, slaughtered youth:

For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes

This vault a feasting presence full of light.

Death, lie thou there,

by a dead man interr'd.

How oft, when men are at the point of death,

Have they been merry? Which their keepers call

A light'ning before death?

O, how may I

Call this a light'ning?

O, my love, 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.

Dear Juliet:

O I believe that unsubstantial death

Is amorous, and doth court my love,

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 again;

here, here will I remain,

With worms that are thy chambermaids:

O, 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 unsavory guide,

Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on

The dashing rocks, thy sea-sick weary bark.

Here's to my love.

O true apothecary:

Thy drugs are quick.

Thus with a kiss

I die.

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 his light

To grubs, and eyeless skulls? As I discern,

It burneth in the Capel's 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.

Stay, then I'll go alone,

fears come upon me.

Alack, alack, what blood is this that stains

The stony entrance of this sepulchre?

What mean this masterless, and gory sword

To lie discolour'd in 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. Where is my Romeo?

I hear some noise - Lady, come from this nest

Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep -

A greater power then 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, 2761 02:40:07,1000 --> 02:40:09,869 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 this?

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,

Happily, some poison yet doth hang on them,

To make me die with a restorative.

Thy lips are warm. 2774 02:41:08,1000 --> 02:41:10,201 Lead, boy, which way?

Yea, noise? Then I'll be brief.

O, happy dagger.

This is thy sheath,

there rust and let me die.

Thus, I come to thee.

This is the place.

Come, look about.

The ground is bloody, search about the churchyard.

Who ere you find attach.

Pittiful sight,

here lies the County slain.

See, friends, where Juliet, two days buried,

New bleeding, wounded - search and see who's near.

Go tell the Prince, run to the Capulets, raise up the Montagues.

- Here's Romeo's man. - Keep him to be examined.

Captain, here's a friar with tools about him

- Fit to ope a tomb. - Keep him safe.

What misadventure is so early up,

That calls a person from its morning's rest?

What is that that thy so shriek abroad?

O the people in the street cry Romeo. Some Juliet, some Paris, and all run

With open outcry toward our monument.

Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain,

And Romeo dead, and Juliet dead before,

Warm and new kill'd.

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

Here is a Friar, and slaughter'd Romeo's man,

With instruments upon them fit to open these dead men's tombs.

O heavens! O, wife, look how our daughter bleeds!

This dagger hath mista'en, for lo his house

Is empty on the back of Montague,

And is mis-sheathed 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, now 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?

First come and see, then speak.

O, thou untaught,

what manners is in this,

To press before thy father to a grave?

Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while,

Till we can cure these ambiguities,

And know their spring, their head, their true descent,

And then will I be general of your woes,

And lead you even to death. Meantime forbear,

And let mischance be slave to patience.

Bring forth the parties of suspicion.

I am the greatest, able to do least,

And here I stand both to impeach and purge

My self condemned, and my self excus'd.

Then say at once, what thou dost know in this?

Romeo there dead, was husband to that Juliet,

And she there dead, that Romeo's faithful wife:

I married them; and their stol'n marriage day

Was Tybalt's doomsday: whose untimely death

Banish'd the new-made bridegroom from this city:

For whom (and not for Tybalt) Juliet pin'd.

You, to remove that siege of grief from her,

Betroth'd, and would have married her perforce

To County Paris. Then comes she to me,

And (with wild looks) bid me devise some means

To rid her from this second marriage,

Or in my cell there would she kill her self.

Then gave I her (so tutor'd by my art)

A sleeping potion, which so took effect

As I intended, for it wrought on her

The form of death. Meantime, I writ to Romeo,

That he should hither come, as this dire night,

To help to take her from her borrowed grave.

But he which bore my letter, Friar John,

Was stay'd by accident; and yesternight

Return'd my letter back. Then all alone,

At the prefixed hour of her waking,

Came I to take her from her kindred's vault,

Meaning to keep her closely at my cell,

Till I conveniently could send to Romeo.

But when I came (some minute ere the time

Of her awaking) here untimely lay

The noble Paris, and true Romeo dead.

She wakes, and I entreated her, come forth,

And bear this work of heaven, with patience:

But then, a noise did scare me from the tomb,

And she (too desperate) would not go with me,

But (as it seems) did violence on her self.

All this I know, and to the marriage her nurse is privy:

And if ought in this miscarried by my fault,

Let my old life be sacrific'd, some hour before the time,

Unto the rigour of severest law.

We still have known thee for a holy man. 2867 02:45:47,1000 --> 02:45:51,970 Where's Romeo's man? What can he say to this?

I brought my master news of Juliet's death,

And then in post he came from Mantua

To this same place, to this same monument.

This letter he early bid me give his father.

Give me the letter, I will look on it.

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,

There is my daughter's dowry, for now no more

Can I bestow on her.

That's all I have.

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 that rate be set,

As that of true and faithful Juliet.

As rich shall Romeo by his lady lie,

Poor sacrifices to 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.

Come away, come sweet love

The golden morning breaks

All the earth, all the air

Of love and pleasure speaks

Teach thine arms to embrace

And rosy lips to kiss

And mix our souls

In mutual bliss

In mutual

Bliss

If you wish to learn the galliard, lady, then come to us

If you wish to learn the galliard, lady, then come to us

For we are the masters and evening, morn and night

We'll never fail to play for you and we will see you right!

Tan tan tarira, tan tan tarira, tan tan tarira, signora

Tan tan tarira, tan tan tarira, tan tan tarira, signora

And we'll dance the step to summon you, lady, ten times or more

And we'll dance the step to summon you, lady, ten times or more

For we are the masters and evening, morn and night

We'll never fail to play for you and we will see you right!

Tan tan tarira, tan tan tarira, tan tan tarira, signora

Tan tan tarira, tan tan tarira, tan tan tarira, signora

Tan tan tarira, tan tan tarira, tan tan tarira, signora

Tan tan tarira, tan tan tarira, tan tan tarira, signora