Original subtitles

Two households,

both alike in dignity, In fair Verona,

where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge

break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes

civil hands unclean.

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes

A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;

Whose misadventured piteous overthrows Do

with their death bury their parents' strife.

The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,

And the continuance of their parents' rage,

Which, but their children's end,

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.

I strike quickly, being moved.

But thou art not quickly moved

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 moved, thou runn'st away.

A dog of that house shall move me to

stand: I will take the wall of any

man or maid of Montague's.

That shows thee a weak slave;

for the weakest goes to the wall.

Tis true; and therefore women,

being the weaker vessels, are ever

thrust to the wall:

Here comes two

of the house of the Montagues.

Quarrel, quarrel,

I will back thee.

How! turn thy back and run?

I will bite my thumb at them;

which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it.

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

I do bite my thumb, sir.

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Come, come, come, come.

Come! RUN!

Abraham.

Open there.

Open, Open.

Open!

What, art thou drawn among these

heartless hinds?

Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.

A servant of the Capulets has killed

Abraham. Abraham has benn killed

at the hands of a Capulet!

What's this?

Abraham! Abraham! Abraham!

Where's my man? Where's my man!

What noise is this?

Abraham is dead.

Give me my sword!

Give me my long sword, ho!

Rebellious subjects,

enemies to peace,

Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,

Will they not hear?

What, ho!

you men, you beasts, That quench the fire of

your pernicious rage With purple fountains

issuing from your veins,

Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,

By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,

Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets,

On pain of torture, from those bloody hands

Throw your mistemper'd weapons to the ground,

And hear the sentence of your moved prince.

If ever you disturb our streets again,

Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.

Good-morrow, cousin.

Is the day so young?

But new struck nine.

Ay me!

sad hours seem long.

What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?

Not having that, which, having,

makes them short.

In love?

Out--

Of love?

Out of her favour,

where I am in love.

Alas, that love, so gentle in his

view, Should be so tyrannous and rough

in proof!

Alas, that love, whose view is

muffled still, Should, without eyes, see

pathways to his will!

Why, then, O brawling love!

O loving hate!

O any thing, of nothing first create!

O heavy lightness!

serious vanity!

Dost thou not laugh?

No, coz, I rather weep.

Good heart, at what?

At thy good heart's oppression.

Why, such is love's transgression.

This love that thou hast shown

Doth add more grief to

too much of mine own.

Farewell, my coz.

Soft!

I will go along;

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

Tut, I have lost myself;

I am not here; This is not Romeo,

he's some other where.

Tell me in sadness,

who is that you love.

Bid a sick man in sadness make his will:

Ah, word ill urged to one that is so ill!

Juliet!

How now! who calls?

Your mother.

Come now, quick, quick!

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 remember'd me, thou's hear

our counsel.

Thou know'st my daughter's of

a pretty age.

Faith, I can tell her age

unto an hour.

How long is it now To Lammas-tide?

Even or odd, of all days in the year,

Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen.

Susan and she--God rest all Christian souls!

Were of an age: 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 earthquake now eleven

years; And she was wean'd,

--I never shall forget it,

For then she could stand alone;

nay, by the rood, She could have run and

waddled all about; For even the day before,

she broke her brow: And then my husband

God be with his soul!

A' was a merry man--took up the child: 'Yea,

' quoth he, 'dost thou fall upon thy face?

Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;

Wilt thou not, Jule?'

and, by my holidame, The pretty wretch left

crying and said 'Ay.'

I warrant, an I should live a thousand years,

I never should forget it: 'Wilt thou not,

Jule?' quoth he;

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

And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse,

say I.

Peace, I have done.

God mark thee to his grace!

An 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?

To marry?

It is an honour that I dream not of.

An honour!

were not I thine only nurse,

I would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom

from thy teat.

Well, think of marriage now;

younger than you, Here in Verona,

ladies of esteem, Are made already mothers.

Thus then in brief:

The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.

But saying o'er what I have said

before: My child is yet a stranger in

the world; She hath not seen the change

of fourteen years, Let two more summers

wither in their pride, Ere we may

think her ripe to be a bride.

Younger than she are happy

mothers made.

And too soon marr'd are those

so early made.

The earth hath swallow'd all my

hopes but she, But woo her, gentle

Paris, get her heart, 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.

But my will to her consent is but a part.

Madam, Juliet.

Come quickly.

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;

I'll look to like, if looking

liking move: But no more deep will I

endart mine eye Than your consent gives

strength to make it fly.

At this same ancient feast of

Capulet's Sups the fair Rosaline whom

thou so lovest,

I aim'd so near, when I supposed

you loved.

A right fair mark, fair coz,

is soonest hit.

Good evening my lord.

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 love's

weak childish bow she lives unharm'd.

She will not stay the siege of loving

terms, Nor bide the encounter of

assailing eyes, O, she is rich in

beauty, only poor, That when she dies

with beauty dies her store.

She is too fair, too wise, wisely too

fair, To merit bliss by making me

despair: She hath forsworn to love,

and in that vow Do I live dead that live

to tell it now.

Tut, man, one fire burns out

another's burning, One pain is lessen'd

by another's anguish;

Turn giddy, and be holp by

backward turning;

One desperate grief cures with

another's languish: Take thou some new

infection to thy eye, And the rank

poison of the old will die.

Be ruled by me, forget to think of her.

O, teach me how I should forget

to think.

Examine other beauties.

Farewell: thou canst not teach me

to forget.

One fairer than my love!

the all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match

since first the world begun.

Juliet, the county stays.

Go, girl, seek happy nights to

happy days.

Welcome, gentlemen!

ladies that have their toes Unplagued

with corns will have a bout with you.

Ah ha, my mistresses!

which of you all Will now deny to dance?

Romeo is here.

Romeo?

Yes sir.

Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe,

A villain that is hither come in

spite, To scorn at our solemnity this night

My fair ladies.

my noble lords, now the musicians of

center Rome, will pay for you the

beautiful galliard.

Young Romeo is it?

'Tis he, that villain Romeo.

I would not for the wealth of all

the town Here in my house do him

disparagement: Therefore be

patient, take no note of him:

I'll not endure him.

He shall be endured:

I have seen the day That I have worn

a visor and could tell A whispering

tale in a fair lady's ear,

For shame!

I'll make you quiet.

What, cheerly, my hearts!

Put on the mask.

Leave this place at once.

Go.

O, she doth teach the torches to

burn bright!

It seems she hangs upon the cheek of

night Like a rich jewel in an

Ethiope's ear; Beauty too rich for

use, for earth too dear!

What lady is that, which doth enrich

the hand Of yonder knight?

I know not, sir.

The measure done, I'll watch her place

of stand, And, touching hers,

make blessed my rude hand.

Shall we rest?

If I profane with my unworthiest hand

This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand

To smooth that rough touch with

a tender kiss.

Good pilgrim, you do wrong your

hand too much, Which mannerly devotion

shows in this; For saints have hands

that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to

palm is holy palmers' kiss.

Have not saints lips, and holy

palmers too?

Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use

in prayer.

O, then, dear saint, let lips do

what hands do; They pray, grant thou,

lest faith turn to despair.

Madam, your mother craves a word

with you.

Who is her mother?

Marry, bachelor, Her mother is the

lady of the house,

Is she a Capulet?

Where's he gone?

Where?

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!

My life is my foe's debt.

Can I go forward when my heart

is here?

Where the devil should this Romeo be?

Came he not home to-night?

Ah, that same pale hard-hearted wench,

that Rosaline.

Torments him so, that he will sure run mad.

Romeo, my cousin Romeo!

The fool is gone.

He is mad.

He is wise; And, on my lie, hath

stol'n him home to bed.

Call, call, call!

Call, good Mercutio.

Call?

Nay, I'll conjure too.

Romeo! humours!

madman! passion! lover!

Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh:

Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;

Hey! Come!

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

demesnes that there adjacent lie,

And if he hear thee,

thou wilt anger him.

This cannot anger him: my invocation

Is fair and honest, and in his mistres s'

name I conjure only but to raise up him.

Come, shall we go?

Go, then; for 'tis in vain To seek him

here that means not to be found.

Blind is his love and best befits the dark.

If love be blind, love cannot hit

the mark.

He jests at scars that never felt

a wound

But, soft!

what light through yonder window breaks?

O Romeo, Romeo!

wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy father and refuse thy name;

'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;

Thou art thyself, though not a

Montague.

What's Montague?

it is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor

face, nor any other part Belonging

to a man.

O, be some other name!

that which we call a rose By any other

name would smell as sweet;

Romeo, doff thy name, And for that name

which is no part of thee Take all myself.

I take thee at thy word: Call me but

love, and I'll be new baptized; Henceforth

I never will be Romeo.

What man art thou

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 not yet drunk a hundred

words Of that tongue's utterance,

yet I know the sound: Art thou not Romeo

and a Montague?

Neither, fair saint, if either

thee dislike.

How camest thou hither, tell me,

and wherefore?

The orchard walls are high and hard

to climb,

With love's light wings did I

o'er-perch these walls; For stony

limits cannot hold love out, Therefore

thy kinsmen are no let to me.

If they do see thee, they will

murder thee.

I have night's cloak to hide me from

their sight; And but thou love me, let

them find me here: My life were better

ended by their hate, Than death prorogued,

wanting of thy love.

By whose direction found'st thou out

this place?

By love, who first did prompt me to

inquire; He lent me counsel and I lent

him eyes.

Dost thou love me?

I know thou wilt say 'Ay,' And I will take

thy word: yet if thou swear'st, Thou mayst

prove false; O gentle Romeo, If thou

dost love, pronounce it faithfully: In

truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, And

therefore thou mayst think my 'havior

light: But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove

more true Than those that have more

cunning to be strange.

Do not impute this yielding to light

love, Which the dark night hath

so discovered.

Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear

That tips with silver all these

fruit-tree tops--

O, swear not by the moon, the

inconstant moon, That monthly changes in

her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove

likewise variable.

What shall I swear by?

Do not swear at all; Or, if thou

wilt, swear by thy gracious self, And

I'll believe thee.

Sweet, good night!

This bud of love, by summer's ripening

breath, May prove a beauteous flower when

next we meet.

Good night, good night!

as sweet repose and rest Come to thy

heart as that within my breast!

O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

What satisfaction canst thou

have to-night?

The exchange of thy love's faithful

vow for mine.

I gave thee mine before thou didst

request it: And yet I would it were to

give again.

Wouldst thou withdraw it?

for what purpose, love?

But to be frank, and give it thee again.

I hear some noise within; dear love,

adieu!

Juliet.

Anon, good nurse!

Sweet Montague, be true.

Stay but a little, I will come again.

O blessed, blessed night!

I am afeard.

Being in night, all this is but a dream,

Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.

Three words, dear Romeo, and

good night indeed.

If that thy bent of love be honourable,

Thy purpose marriage, send me word

to-morrow, 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.

So thrive my soul--

A thousand times good night!

A thousand times the worse, to want

thy light

Hist! Romeo, hist!

O, for a falconer's voice, To lure this

tassel-gentle back again!

Romeo!

My dear?

Romeo!

My dear?

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,

And I'll still stay, to have thee

still forget,

'Tis almost morning; I would have

thee gone: And yet no further than a

wanton's bird; Who lets it hop a little

from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his

twisted gyves, And with a silk thread

plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of

his liberty.

I would I were thy bird.

Sweet, so would I: Yet I should kill

thee with much cherishing.

Good night, good night!

parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall

say good night till it be morrow.

Goodnight.

The grey-eyed morn smiles on the

frowning night, Chequering the

eastern clouds with streaks of light,

Now, ere the sun advance his burning

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

to dry, I must up-fill this osier

cage of ours With baleful weeds and

precious-juiced flowers.

The earth that's nature's mother is

her tomb; What is her burying grave that is

her womb, And from her womb children of

divers kind We sucking on her

natural bosom find,

O, mickle is the powerful grace that

lies In herbs, plants, stones, and

their true qualities:

Within the infant rind of this sweet flower

Within the infant rind of this...

Within the infant rind of this sweet

flower Poison hath residence and

medicine power: For this, being smelt,

with that part cheers each part; Being

tasted, slays all senses with the heart.

Good morrow, father.

Benedicite!

No. no, no.

Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So

soon to bid good morrow to thy bed:

Care keeps his watch in every old man's

eye, And where care lodges, sleep will

never lie; But where unbruised youth with

unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs,

there golden sleep doth reign:

Therefore thy earliness

doth me assure

Thou art up-roused by

some distemperature;

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

Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.

That last is true;

the sweeter rest was mine

God pardon sin!

wast thou with Rosaline?

With Rosaline,

my ghostly father?

no;

I have forgot that name,

and that name's woe.

That's my good son:

but where hast thou been, then?

Where on a sudden one hath wounded me,

That's by me wounded: both our remedies

Within thy help and holy physic lies:

I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo,

My intercession likewise steads my foe.

Be plain, good son, and homely in

thy drift;

Then plainly know my heart's dear love

is set On the fair daughter of rich

Capulet: As mine on hers, so hers is set

on mine; And all combined, save what

thou must combine By holy marriage:

but this I pray, That thou consent to marry

us to-day.

Holy Saint Francis, what a

change is here!

Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so

dear, So soon forsaken?

young men's love then lies Not truly in

their hearts, but in their eyes.

Jesu Maria, what a deal of brine Hath

wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!

And art thou changed?

pronounce this sentence then,

Women may fall, when there's no

strength in men.

Thou chid'st me oft for

loving Rosaline.

For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.

And bad'st me bury love.

Not in a grave, To lay one in,

another out to have.

I pray thee, chide not; she whom I love

now Doth grace for grace and love for

love allow; The other did not so.

In one respect I'll thy assistant

be; For this alliance may so happy prove,

To turn your households' rancour

to pure love.

The clock struck nine when I did send

the nurse; In half an hour she promised

to return.

Perchance she cannot meet him:

that's not so.

love's heralds should be thoughts, Which

ten times faster glide than the

sun's beams,

O God, she comes!

O, she comes!

O honey nurse, what news?

Hast thou met with him?

I am a-weary, give me leave awhile: Fie,

how my bones ache!

what a jaunt have I had!

Nay, come, I pray thee, speak; good,

good nurse, speak.

Jesu, what haste?

can you not stay awhile?

Do you not see that I am out of breath?

How art thou out of breath, when thou

hast breath To say to me that thou art out

of breath?

Is thy news good, or bad?

answer to that; Say either, and I'll stay

the circumstance: Let me be satisfied,

is't good or bad?

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 God's lady dear!

Are you so hot?

marry, come up, I trow; Henceforward

do your messages yourself.

Oh. Here's such a coil!

come, what says Romeo?

Have you got leave to go to

church to-morrow?

I have.

For nought so vile that on the earth

doth live But to the earth some special

good doth give, Nor aught so good but

strain'd from that fair use Revolts from

true birth, stumbling on abuse: Virtue

itself turns vice, being misapplied;

Two such opposed foes encamp them still In

man as well as herbs, grace and rude will

And where the worser is predominant

It is she.

And where the worser

is predominant,

Let's go father.

And where the worser is

predominant, Full soon the canker death

eats up that plant.

Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

So smile the heavens upon this holy act,

That after hours with sorrow chide us not!

Do thou but close our hands with

holy words, Then love-devouring death

do what he dare;

(Speaking in Latin)

Amen!

Amen.

Thank you sir.

oh, gold, come quick, look.

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;

Boy, this shall not excuse the

injuries That thou hast done me;

therefore turn and draw.

I do protest, I never injured thee,

But love thee better than thou canst

devise, Till thou shalt know the reason

of my love: And so, good Capulet,--which

name I tender As dearly as my own,

--be satisfied.

O calm, dishonourable,

vile submission!

Alla stoccata carries it away.

Tybalt, you rat-catcher,

will you walk?

What wouldst thou have with me?

Good king of cats,

Mercutio!

Good king of cats, nothing but one of

your nine lives; that I mean to make

bold withal, and as you shall use me

hereafter, drybeat the rest of the eight.

Will you pluck your sword out of his

pitcher by the ears?

make haste, lest mine be about your ears

ere it be out.

I am for you.

Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.

Come, sir, your passado.

Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.

Gentlemen, for shame

Hold, Tybalt! good Mercutio!

Good Mercutio!

Why the devil came you between us?

I was hurt under your arm.

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 to-morrow,

and you shall find me a grave man.

I am peppered, I warrant,

for this world.

A plague on both your houses!

O Romeo, Romeo,

brave Mercutio's dead!

Away to heaven, respective lenity,

And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now!

Now Tybalt, take the villain back again,

That late thou gavest me; for Mercutio's

soul Is but a little way above our heads,

Staying for thine to keep him company:

Either thou, or I, or both,

must go with him.

Thou, wretched boy,

that didst consort him here,

Shalt with him hence.

Romeo, away, be gone!

The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.

Stand not amazed: the prince will doom thee

death, If thou art taken: hence, away,

be gone!

O, I am fortune's fool.

Where are the vile beginners of

this fray?

I can discover all

Tybalt, my cousin!

O my brother's child!

For blood of ours,

shed blood of Montague.

Oh bloody fill of my dear kin.

Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.

Can heaven be so envious?

Romeo can, Though heaven cannot:

O Romeo, Romeo!

Who ever would have thought it?

Romeo!

Can heaven be so envious?

Romeo can

Oh God!

did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood?

It did, it did; alas the day, it did!

O serpent heart,

hid with a flowering face!

Despised substance of divinest show!

Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st,

A damned saint, an honourable villain!

O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell,

When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend

In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?

There's no trust, No faith, no honesty

in men; all perjured, All forsworn, all

naught, all dissemblers.

Shame come to Romeo!

Will you speak well of him that

kill'd your cousin?

Shall I speak ill of him that is

my husband?

Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall

smooth thy name, When I,

thy three-hours wife, have mangled it?

But, wherefore, villain, didst thou

kill my cousin?

Romeo that spoke him fair, bade him

bethink How nice the quarrel was, and

urged 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, 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,

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

then 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.

Mercy but murders, pardoning those

that kill.

I bring thee tidings of the

prince's doom.

A gentler judgment vanish'd from his

lips, Not body's death, but body's

banishment.

Banishment!

Ha, banishment!

be merciful, say 'death;' For exile

hath more terror in his look, Much more

than death: do not say 'banishment.'

Hence 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.

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: he is

banished: Hadst thou no poison mix'd, no

sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of

death, though ne'er so mean,

But 'banished' to kill me?

--'banished'?

Hear me but speak a word.

Thou canst 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 mightst thou speak,

Juliet's nurse.

Shh, shhh, shh.

Leave us.

I come from Lady Juliet.

Welcome, then.

O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar,

Where is my lady's lord, where's Romeo?

There on the ground, with his own

tears made drunk.

O, he is even in my mistress' case,

Just in her case

Spakest thou of Juliet?

how is it with her?

Doth she not think me an old murderer, Now

I have stain'd the childhood of our joy

With blood removed but little from

her own?

Where is she?

and how doth she?

and what says My conceal'd lady to our

cancell'd 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.

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?

Art thou a man?

thy form cries out thou art: Thy tears

are womanish;

Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed,

But look thou stay not till the watch be

set, For then thou canst not pass to

Mantua; Where thou shalt live, till we

can find a time To blaze your marriage,

reconcile your friends, Beg pardon

of the prince, and call thee back With

twenty hundred thousand times more

joy Than thou went'st forth in lamentation.

Make haste.

Balthasar.

Thank you my lord.

Romeo!

She's there.

Back, foolish tears, back to your

native spring; Your tributary drops

belong to woe, Which you, mistaking,

offer up to joy.

My husband lives, that Tybalt would

have slain; And Tybalt's dead, that

would have slain my husband: All this is

comfort; wherefore weep I then?

Wilt thou be gone?

it is not yet near day: It was the

nightingale, and not the lark, That

pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;

Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree:

Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

It was the lark, the herald of the morn,

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.

Yon light is not day-light, I know it,

I: Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not

to be gone.

Let me stay here, let me be ta'en and die;

I am content, so thou wilt have it so.

I'll say yon grey is not the morning's

eye, 'Tis but the pale reflex of

Cynthia's brow; Nor that is not the lark,

whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven so

high above our heads: I have more care to

stay than will to go: Come, death,

and welcome!

Juliet wills it so.

How is't, my soul?

let's talk; it is not day.

It is, it is: hie hence, be gone, away!

It is the lark that sings so out of tune,

Straining harsh discords and

unpleasing sharps.

O, now be gone; more light and

light it grows.

More light and light, more dark

and dark it grows

Madam!

Nurse?

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.

I must hear from thee every day in the

hour, For in a minute there are many days:

I will omit no opportunity

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!

thou look'st pale.'

And trust me, love, in my eye so

do you: Dry sorrow drinks our blood.

Adieu, adieu!

It is late, my lord.

Things have fall'n out, sir, so

unluckily, That we have had no time to

move our daughter: Look you, she loved

her kinsman Tybalt dearly, And so did

I:--Well, we were born to die.

These times of woe afford no time to woo

But, soft!

what day is this?

Monday, my lord,

Monday!

Well, Wednesday is too soon, O' Thursday

let it be: o' Thursday, tell her,

She shall be married to this noble earl.

Will you be ready?

do you like this haste?

We'll keep no great ado,--a friend or

two; For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so

late, It may be thought we held him

carelessly, Being our kinsman, if we revel

much: Therefore we'll have some half a

dozen friends, And there an end.

But what say you to Thursday?

My lord, I would that Thursday

were to-morrow.

Senior Paris.

I think she will be ruled In all respects

by me; nay, more, I doubt it not.

Why, how now, Juliet!

Madam, I am not well.

Evermore weeping for

your cousin's death?

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.

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.

God Pardon him!

I do, with all my heart; And yet no

man like he doth grieve my heart.

O, how my heart abhors To hear him

named, and cannot come to him.

To wreak the love I bore my cousin,

Tybolt, Upon his body that slaughter'd him!

We will have vengeance for it,

fear thou not: Then weep no more.

But now I'll tell thee joyful tidings,

girl.

And joy comes well in such a needy time:

What are they,

I beseech your ladyship?

Well, well, thou hast a careful

father, child; One who, to put thee from

thy heaviness, Hath sorted out a sudden

day of joy, That thou expect'st not nor

I look'd not for.

Madam, in happy time,

what day is that?

Marry, my child, early next Thursday

morn, The gallant, rich and noble

gentleman, The County Paris, at Saint

Peter's Church, Shall happily make thee

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.

Tell him so yourself,

And see how he will

take it at your hands.

Do as you will.

For it have done well.

How now, wife!

Have you not told her our decree?

Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives

you thanks.

I would the fool were married to her grave.

Soft! take me with you,

take me with you, wife.

How! will she none?

doth she not give us thanks?

Is she not proud?

doth she not count her blest, Unworthy

as she is, that we have wrought So

worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?

Not proud, you have; but thankful,

that you have: Proud can I never be of

what I hate; But thankful even for

hate, that is meant love.

How now, how now, chop-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 Peter's Church, Or I

will drag thee on a hurdle thither.

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 o'

Thursday, Or never after look me in the

face: Speak not, reply not, do not

answer me; My fingers itch.

Wife, we scarce thought us blest That

God had lent us but this only child; But

now I see this one is one too much, And

that we have a curse in having her:

Out on her, hilding!

God in heaven bless her!

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

And why, my lady wisdom?

hold your tongue, Good prudence;

smatter with your gossips, go.

I speak no treason.

O, God ye god-den.

May not one speak?

You are too hot

God's bread!

it makes me mad: Day, night, late, early,

at home, abroud.

Alone, in company, waking and sleeping.

still my care hath been To have her

match'd: and having now provided A

gentleman of princely parentage, Of fair

demesnes, rich, and nobly train'd,

Stuff'd, as they say, with honourable

parts, Proportion'd as one's thought

would wish a man; And then to have a

wretched puling fool, A whining mammet, in

her fortune's tender, To answer 'I'll not

wed; I cannot love, I am too young; I pray

you, pardon me.'

But, as you will not wed, I'll pardon you:

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

to jest.

Thursday is near; lay hand on heart,

advise:

O, sweet my mother, cast me

not away!

Delay this marriage for a month, a week;

Talk not to me, for I'll not speak

a word:

O God!

--O nurse, how shall this be prevented?

My husband is on earth, my faith

in heaven;

Alack, alack, that heaven should

practise stratagems Upon so soft a

subject as myself!

What say'st thou?

hast thou not a word of joy?

Some comfort, nurse.

Faith, here it is.

Romeo is banish'd; and all the world to

nothing, That he dares ne'er come back

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.

Speakest thou from thy heart?

And from my soul too;

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:

Well, thou hast comforted me

marvellous much.

Good father pardon, I beseech you!

Henceforward I am ever ruled by you.

But now let me go, having displeased

you, to Laurence' cell, To make

confession and to be absolved.

This is wisely done.

Where is Friar Laurence?

There.

(Speaking in Latin)

O shut the door!

and when thou hast done so, Come weep

with me; past hope, past cure, past help!

(Speaking in Latin)

God join'd my heart and Romeo's,

thou our hands; And ere this hand, by

thee to Romeo seal'd, Shall be the label to

another deed, Or my true heart with

treacherous revolt Turn to another, this

shall slay them both:

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,

O, bid me leap, rather than marry

Paris, From off the battlements of yonder

tower; Or walk in thievish ways; or

bid me lurk Where serpents are; chain

me with roaring bears; Or shut me

nightly in a charnel-house,

Hold, then;

To-morrow night look that thou lie alone;

Let not thy nurse lie in thy chamber: Take

thou this vial, being then in bed, And this

distilled liquor drink thou off; When

presently through all thy veins shall run A

cold and drowsy humour, for no pulse

Shall keep his native progress, but

surcease: No warmth, no breath, shall

testify thou livest;

Each part, deprived of supple government,

Shall, stiff and stark and cold,

appear like death: And in this borrow'd

likeness of shrunk death Thou shalt

continue two and forty hours,

Now, when the bridegroom in the

morning comes To rouse thee from thy

bed, there art thou dead: Then, as the

manner of our country is, In thy best robes

uncover'd on the bier Thou shalt be borne

to that same ancient vault Where all the

kindred of the Capulets lie.

Things that, to hear them told, have

made me tremble; And I will do it without

fear or doubt, To live an unstain'd

wife to my sweet love.

In the mean time, against thou shalt

awake, Shall Romeo by my letter

know our drift,

Then I will watch thou waking, and

secretely hither to bring the to this

cell until the chapter day.

Which we in Mantua each year do hold

at Easter time.

Wtih all the friars confused I'll have

its wearing, I'll bear the hense,

to Romeo.

But tell me, wilt thou not fear thy

newly entombed cousin Tybalt?

Give me, give me!

O, tell not me of fear!

Love give me strength!

and strength shall help afford.

Farewell, dear father!

See where she comes from shrift

with merry look.

Come.

How now, my headstrong!

where have you been gadding?

Where I have learn'd me to

repent the sin of disobedient

opposition To you and your behests, and am

enjoin'd By holy Laurence to fall

prostrate here, And beg your pardon:

Why, I am glad on't; this is well:

stand up: Stand up.

Now, afore God!

this reverend holy friar, Our whole city

is much bound to him.

To Mantua?

(Speaking in Latin)

Hello there,

this way to Mantua?

Yes father.

There.

Come.

The wedding dress.

Is it not beautiful?

Hie, indeed.

Poor soul, thy face is much abused

with tears.

The tears have got small victory by

that; For it was bad enough before

their spite.

Thou wrong'st it, more than tears, with

that report.

That is no slander, sir,

which is a truth;

Hie, father.

This will help you father.

Holy father, come quickly.

The man's dying.

The man's dyimg and wiches to confess.

Hold my brother's donkey.

OOH, ml letter.

Come, come

What is it my good man?

Five days he lies in bed, with a

strange sickness.

His body is racked with pain.

I fear he dies!

He wants a ftaher confessor for

his sins.

But will not have a doctor for ail.

He fears death, bnut he fears the

doctor more.

Charge will the soul he may unburden

to one who also knows of medicine

and be it so.

For body ailments often mirrows a

sickness of the soul.

But this is plaque!

Water, water.

Water.

Hold, hold the door.

My letter, my letter, open up here.

My letter for Romeo!

Nay, nay!

I pray thee, leave me to my self

to-night, For I have need of many orisons

To move the heavens to smile upon my

state, Which, well thou know'st, is

cross, and full of sin.

What, are you busy, ho?

need you my help?

No, madam; we have cull'd such

necessaries As are behoveful for our

state to-morrow: 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:

My dismal scene I needs must act alone

What if this mixture do not work at all?

Shall I be married then

to-morrow morning?

What if it be a poison, which the

friar Subtly hath minister'd to have me

dead, Lest in this marriage he should be

dishonour'd, Because he married me before

to Romeo?

How if, when I am laid into the tomb,

I wake before the time the holy

friar come to redeem me?

Shall I not, then, be stifled in the vault,

To whose foul mouth no healthsome air

breathes in,

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

festering in his shroud; O, look!

methinks I see my cousin's ghost

Seeking out Romeo, stay, Tybalt, stay!

Romeo, I come!

this do I drink to thee.

Hold, take these keys, and fetch more

spices, nurse.

They call for dates and quinces

in the pastry.

What, ho!

What, nurse, I say!

Go waken Juliet, go and trim her up;

Mistress!

why, mistress!

Juliet!

fast, I warrant her, she: Why, lamb!

why, lady! fie,

you slug-a-bed!

What, not a word

She's dead, She's dead, She's dead!

If I may trust the flattering truth of

sleep, My dreams presage some joyful

news at hand: My bosom's lord sits

lightly on 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 breathed such life with kisses in

my lips, That I revived, and was

an emperor.

Ah me!

how sweet is love itself possess'd,

When but love's shadows are so

rich in joy!

Welcome Balthasar.

News from Verona!

--How now, Balthasar!

Dost thou not bring me letters from

the friar?

How doth my lady?

Is my father well?

How fares my Juliet?

that I ask again; For nothing can be ill,

if she be well.

Then she is well, and nothing can

be ill:

O, pardon me for bringing these ill

news, Since you did leave it for my

office, sir.

Ill news I sense?

Her body sleeps in Capel's monument, And

her immortal part with angels lips.

I saw this and presently took post

to tell it you:

I do beseech you, sir, have patience:

Your looks are pale and wild,

and do import Some misadventure.

Tush, thou art deceived:

Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?

No, my good lord.

No matter: get thee gone,

then I defy you, stars!

My lord.

No, no my good lord!

Well, Juliet, I will lie with

thee to-night.

Friar Laurence?

But he is morning at a funeral.

where?

At the main church.

Death lies on her like an untimely

frost Upon the sweetest flower of

all the field.

O lamentable day!

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!

Confusion's cure lives not In

these confusions.

Heaven and yourself Had part in this fair

maid; now heaven hath all, And all the

better is it for the maid:

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

The heavens do lour upon you for some

ill; Move them no more by crossing

their high will.

Nurse.

Holy Franciscan friar!

brother, ho!

Welcome from Mantua:

what says Romeo?

I could not find him.

The searchers of the town, suspecting

that I was in a house where the infectious

pestilence did reign, Seal'd up the doors,

and would not let us forth; So that my

speed to Mantua there was stay'd.

Who bare my letter, then,

to Romeo?

I could not send it,--here it is

again,-- Nor get a messenger to bring it

thee, So fearful were they of 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.

Stop thy unhallow'd 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;

I beseech thee, youth, Put not

another sin upon my head, By urging me

to fury: O, be gone!

Stay not, be gone; live, and hereafter

say, A madman's mercy bade thee run away.

I do defy thy conjurations,

And apprehend thee for a felon here.

If thou be merciful,

Open the tomb,

lay me with Juliet.

In faith, I will.

What said my man, when my betossed soul

Did not attend him

I think he told me Paris should have

married Juliet: Said he not so?

or did I dream it so?

Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,

To think it was so?

O, give me thy hand, One writ with me

in sour misfortune's book!

I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave;

How oft when men are at the point of death

Have they been merry!

which their keepers call A lightning

before death: O, how may I Call

this a lightning?

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.

Tybalt, liest thou there in thy

bloody sheet?

O, what more favour can I do to thee,

Than with that hand that cut thy youth in

twain To sunder his that was thine enemy?

Forgive me, cousin!

Ah, dear Juliet, Why art thou yet so fair?

Shall I believe That unsubstantial death

is amorous, And that the lean abhorred

monster keeps Thee here in dark to be

his paramour?

For fear of that, I still will stay with

thee; And never from this palace of dim

night depart again:

here, here will I remain

And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars

From this world-wearied flesh.

Eyes,

look your last!

Arms,

take your last embrace!

and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal

with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to

engrossing death!

Come, bitter conduct, come,

unsavoury guide!

Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on

the dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!

Oh.

Romeo,

Romeo!

ROMEO!

Romeo

O, pale

O comfortable friar!

where is my lord?

I do remember well where I should be,

And there I am.

Where is my Romeo?

Lady, come from that nest Of death,

contagion, and unnatural sleep:

Come, come.

A greater power than we can contradict

hath thwarted our intents.

Come, come away.

Come, go, good Juliet,

I dare no longer stay.

Thy lips are warm.

This is thy sheath;

there rust, and let me die.

O me!

this sight of death is as a bell, that

warns my old age to a sepulchre.

O thou untaught!

what manners is in this?

To press before thy father to a grave?

Capulet!

Montague!

See, what a scourge is laid upon your

hate, That heaven finds means to kill

your joys with love.

O brother Montague,

give me thy hand.

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.