1595

THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET

by William Shakespeare

Dramatis Personae

Chorus.

Escalus, Prince of Verona.

County Paris, a young Count,
kinsman to the Prince.

Montague,
head of one of two houses
at variance with each other.

Capulet,
head of one of two houses
at variance with each other.

An old Man, of the Capulet family.

Romeo, son to Montague.

Tybalt, nephew to Lady Capulet.

Mercutio, kinsman to the Prince
and friend to Romeo.

Benvolio, nephew to Montague,
and friend to Romeo

Friar Laurence, Franciscan.

Friar John, Franciscan.

Balthasar, Servant to Romeo.

Abram, Servant to Montague.

Sampson, Servant to Capulet.

Gregory, Servant to Capulet.

Peter, Servant to Juliet's nurse.

An Apothecary.

Three Musicians.

An Officer.

Lady Montague, wife to Montague.

Lady Capulet, wife to Capulet.

Juliet, daughter to Capulet.

Nurse to Juliet.

Citizens of Verona;
Gentlemen and Gentlewomen
of both houses;

Maskers, Torchbearers, Pages,
Guards, Watchmen, Servants,
and Attendants.

SCENE.—Verona; Mantua.

THE PROLOGUE

Enter Chorus.

Chorus.

Two households,
both alike in dignity,

In fair Verona,
where we lay our scene,

From ancient grudge break
to new mutiny,

Where civil blood
makes civil hands unclean.

From forth the fatal loins
of these two foes

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

Whose misadventur'd
piteous overthrows

Doth with their death
bury their parents' strife.

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

And the continuance
of their parents' rage,

Which, but their children's end,
naught could remove,

Is now the two hours' traffic
of our stage;

The which
if you with patient ears attend,

What here shall miss,
our toil shall strive to mend.

[Exit.]

ACT I.

Scene I. Verona. A public place.

Enter Sampson and Gregory
(with swords and bucklers)
of the house of Capulet.

Sampson.

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

Gregory.

No, for then we should be colliers.

Sampson.

I mean, an we be in choler,
we'll draw.

Gregory.

Ay, while you live,
draw your neck out of collar.

Sampson.

I strike quickly, being moved.

Gregory.

But thou art not quickly moved
to strike.

Sampson.

A dog of the house of Montague
moves me.

Gregory.

To move is to stir,
and to be valiant is to stand.

Therefore,
if thou art moved,
thou runn'st away.

Sampson.

A dog of that house
shall move me to stand.
I will take the wall
of any man or maid of Montague's.

Gregory.

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

Sampson.

'Tis true; and therefore women,
being the weaker vessels,
are ever thrust to the wall.
Therefore
I will push Montague's men
from the wall
and thrust his maids to the wall.

Gregory.

The quarrel is between our masters
and us their men.

Sampson.

'Tis all one.
I will show myself a tyrant.
When I have fought with the men,
I will be cruel with the maids—
I will cut off their heads.

Gregory.

The heads of the maids?

Sampson.

Ay, the heads of the maids,
or their maidenheads.
Take it in what sense thou wilt.

Gregory.

They must take it
in sense that feel it.

Sampson.

Me they shall feel
while I am able to stand;
and 'tis known
I am a pretty piece of flesh.

Gregory.

'Tis well thou art not fish;
if thou hadst,
thou hadst been poor John.
Draw thy tool!
Here comes two
of the house of Montagues.

Enter two other Servingmen
[Abram and Balthasar.]

Sampson.

My naked weapon is out.
Quarrel! I will back thee.

Gregory.

How? Turn thy back and run?

Sampson.

Fear me not.

Gregory.

No, marry. I fear thee!

Sampson.

Let us take the law of our sides;
let them begin.

Gregory.

I will frown as I pass by,
and let them take it as they list.

Sampson.

Nay, as they dare.
I will bite my thumb at them;
which is disgrace to them,
if they bear it.

Abram.

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Sampson.

I do bite my thumb, sir.

Abram.

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Sampson. [aside to Gregory]

Is the law of our side if I say ay?

Gregory.
[aside to Sampson]

No.

Sampson.

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

Gregory.

Do you quarrel, sir?

Abram.

Quarrel, sir? No, sir.

Sampson.

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

Abram.

No better.

Sampson.

Well, sir.

Enter Benvolio.

Gregory. [aside to Sampson]

Say 'better'.
Here comes
one of my master's kinsmen.

Sampson.

Yes, better, sir.

Abram.

You lie.

Sampson.

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

They fight.

Benvolio.

Part, fools!

[Beats down their swords.]

Put up your swords.
You know not what you do.

Enter Tybalt.

Tybalt.

What,
art thou drawn
among these heartless hinds?

Turn thee Benvolio!
look upon thy death.

Benvolio.

I do but keep the peace.
Put up thy sword,

Or manage it
to part these men with me.

Tybalt.

What, drawn, and talk of peace?
I hate the word

As I hate hell, all Montagues,
and thee.

Have at thee, coward!

They fight.

Enter an officer,
and three or four Citizens
with clubs or partisans.

Officer.

Clubs, bills, and partisans!
Strike! Beat them down!

Citizens.

Down with the Capulets!
Down with the Montagues!

Enter Old Capulet in his gown,
and his Wife.

Capulet.

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

Lady Capulet.

A crutch, a crutch!
Why call you for a sword?

Capulet.

My sword, I say!
Old Montague is come

And flourishes his blade
in spite of me.

Enter Old Montague and his Wife.

Montague.

Thou villain Capulet!—
Hold me not, let me go.

Lady Montague.

Thou shalt not stir one foot
to seek a foe.

Enter Prince Escalus,
with his Train.

Prince.

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!

On pain of torture,
from those bloody hands

Throw your mistempered weapons
to the ground

And hear the sentence
of your moved prince.

Three civil brawls,
bred of an airy word

By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,

Have thrice disturb'd
the quiet of our streets

And made Verona's ancient citizens

Cast by
their grave beseeming ornaments

To wield old partisans,
in hands as old,

Cank'red with peace,
to part your cank'red hate.

If ever
you disturb our streets again,

Your lives shall pay the forfeit
of the peace.

For this time
all the rest depart away.

You, Capulet,
shall go along with me;

And, Montague,
come you this afternoon,

To know
our farther pleasure in this case,

To old Freetown,
our common judgment place.

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

Exeunt
[all but Montague, his Wife,
and Benvolio.]

Montague.

Who set this ancient quarrel
new abroach?

Speak, nephew,
were you by when it began?

Benvolio.

Here were the servants
of your adversary

And yours,
close fighting ere I did approach.

I drew to part them.
In the instant came

The fiery Tybalt,
with his sword prepar'd;

Which,
as he breath'd defiance to my ears,

He swung about his head
and cut the winds,

Who, nothing hurt withal,
hiss'd him in scorn.

While we were interchanging
thrusts and blows,

Came more and more,
and fought on part and part,

Till the Prince came,
who parted either part.

Lady Montague.

O, where is Romeo?
Saw you him to-day?

Right glad I am
he was not at this fray.

Benvolio.

Madam,

an hour before the worshipp'd sun

Peer'd forth the golden window

of the East,

A troubled mind drave me
to walk abroad;

Where,
underneath the grove of sycamore

That westward rooteth
from the city's side,

So early walking
did I see your son.

Towards him I made;
but he was ware of me

And stole into
the covert of the wood.

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—

Pursu'd my humour,
not pursuing his,

And gladly shunn'd
who gladly fled from me.

Montague.

Many a morning
hath he there been seen,

With tears
augmenting the fresh morning's dew,

Adding to clouds more clouds
with his deep sighs;

But
all so soon as the all-cheering sun

Should in the furthest East
bean to draw

The shady curtains
from Aurora's bed,

Away from light
steals home my heavy son

And private in his chamber
pens himself,

Shuts up his windows,
locks fair daylight

And makes himself
an artificial night.

Black and portentous
must this humour prove

Unless good counsel
may the cause remove.

Benvolio.

My noble uncle,
do you know the cause?

Montague.

I neither know it
nor can learn of him.

Benvolio.

Have you importun'd him
by any means?

Montague.

Both by myself
and many other friend;

But he,

his own affections' counsellor,
Is to himself—

I will not say how true—

But to himself
so secret and so close,

So far from sounding and discovery,

As is the bud
bit with an envious worm

Ere he can spread his sweet leaves
to the air

Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.

Could we but learn
from whence his sorrows grow,

We would
as willingly give cure as know.

Enter Romeo.

Benvolio.

See, where he comes.
So please you step aside,

I'll know his grievance,
or be much denied.

Montague.

I would thou wert so happy
by thy stay

To hear true shrift.

Come, madam, let's away,

Exeunt
[Montague and Lady Montague.]

Benvolio.

Good morrow, cousin.

Romeo.

Is the day so young?

Benvolio.

But new struck nine.

Romeo.

Ay me!
Sad hours seem long.

Was that my father
that went hence so fast?

Benvolio.

It was.
What sadness
lengthens Romeo's hours?

Romeo.

Not having that which
having
makes them short.

Benvolio.

In love?

Romeo.

Out—

Benvolio.

Of love?

Romeo.

Out of her favour
where I am in love.

Benvolio.

Alas that love,
so gentle in his view,

Should be so tyrannous and rough
in proof!

Romeo.

Alas that love,
whose view is muffled still,

Should without eyes
see pathways to his will!

Where shall we dine?
O me! What fray was here?

Yet tell me not,
for I have heard it all.

Here's much to do with hate,
but more with love.

Why then, O brawling love!
O loving hate!

O anything,
of nothing first create!

O heavy lightness!
serious vanity!

Misshapen chaos
of well-seeming forms!

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

Still-waking sleep,
that is not what it is

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

Dost thou not laugh?

Benvolio.

No, coz, I rather weep.

Romeo.

Good heart, at what?

Benvolio.

At thy good heart's oppression.

Romeo.

Why, such is love's transgression.

Griefs of mine own
lie heavy in my breast,

Which thou wilt propagate,
to have it prest

With more of thine.

This love that thou hast shown

Doth add more grief
to too much of mine own.

Love is a smoke
rais'd with the fume of sighs;

Being purg'd,
a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;

Being vex'd,
a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears.

What is it else?
A madness most discreet,

A choking gall,
and a preserving sweet.

Farewell, my coz.

Benvolio.

Soft! I will go along.

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

Romeo.

Tut! I have lost myself;
I am not here:

This is not Romeo,
he's some other where.

Benvolio.

Tell me in sadness,
who is that you love?

Romeo.

What, shall I groan and tell thee?

Benvolio.

Groan?
Why, no;

But sadly tell me who.

Romeo.

Bid a sick man in sadness
make his will.

Ah, word ill urg'd
to one that is so ill!

In sadness, cousin,
I do love a woman.

Benvolio.

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

Romeo.

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

Benvolio.

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

Romeo.

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 th' encounter
of assailing eyes,

Nor ope her lap
to saint-seducing gold.

O, she's rich in beauty; only poor

That, when she dies,
with beauty dies her store.

Benvolio.

Then she hath sworn
that she will still live chaste?

Romeo.

She hath,
and in that sparing
makes huge waste;

For beauty,
starv'd with her severity,

Cuts beauty off from all posterity.

She is too fair, too wise,
wisely too fair,

To merit bliss
by making me despair.

She hath forsworn to love,
and in that vow

Do I live dead
that live to tell it now.

Benvolio.

Be rul'd by me:
forget to think of her.

Romeo.

O, teach me how
I should forget to think!

Benvolio.

By giving liberty unto thine eyes.

Examine other beauties.

Romeo.

'Tis the way

To call hers (exquisite)
in question more.

These happy masks
that kiss fair ladies' brows,

Being black
puts us in mind they hide the fair.

He that is strucken blind
cannot forget

The precious treasure
of his eyesight lost.

Show me a mistress
that is passing fair,

What doth her beauty serve
but as a note

Where I may read
who pass'd that passing fair?

Farewell.
Thou canst not teach me to forget.

Benvolio.

I'll pay that doctrine,
or else die in debt.

Exeunt.

Scene II. A Street.

Enter Capulet, County Paris, and
[Servant]—the Clown.

Capulet.

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.

County Paris.

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?

Capulet.

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.

County Paris.

Younger than she
are happy mothers made.

Capulet.

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

The earth
hath swallowed all my hopes
but she;

She is the hopeful lady
of my earth.

But woo her, gentle County Paris,
get her heart;

My will to her consent
is but a part.

An she agree,
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
look to behold this night

Earth-treading stars
that make dark heaven light.

Such comfort
as do lusty young men feel

When well apparell'd
April on the heel

Of limping Winter treads,
even such delight

Among fresh female buds
shall you this night

Inherit at my house.
Hear all, all see,

And like her most
whose merit most shall be;

Which,
on more view of many,
mine, being one,

May stand in number,
though in reck'ning none.

Come, go with me.

[To Servant, giving him a paper]

Go, sirrah, trudge about

Through fair Verona;
find those persons out

Whose names are written there,
and to them say,

My house and welcome
on their pleasure stay.—

Exeunt [Capulet and County Paris.]

Servant.

Find them out
whose names are written here?
It is written
that the shoemaker should meddle
with his yard
and the tailor with his last,
the fisher with his pencil
and the painter with his nets;
but I am sent
to find those persons
whose names are here writ,
and can never find what names
the writing person hath here writ.
I must to the learned.
In good time!

Enter Benvolio and Romeo.

Benvolio.

Tut, man,
one fire
burns out another's burning;

One pain is lessened
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.

Romeo.

Your plantain leaf
is excellent for that.

Benvolio.

For what, I pray thee?

Romeo.

For your broken shin.

Benvolio.

Why, Romeo, art thou mad?

Romeo.

Not mad,
but bound more than a madman is;

Shut up in prison,
kept without my food,

Whipp'd and tormented and—
God-den, good fellow.

Servant.

God gi' go-den.
I pray, sir, can you read?

Romeo.

Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.

Servant.

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

Romeo.

Ay,
If I know the letters
and the language.

Servant.

Ye say honestly.
Rest you merry!

Romeo.

Stay, fellow; I can read.

He reads.

'Signior Martino
and his wife and daughters;

County Anselmo
and his beauteous sisters;

The lady widow of Vitruvio;

Signior Placentio
and his lovely nieces;

Mercutio and his brother Valentine;

Mine uncle Capulet,
his wife, and daughters;

My fair niece Rosaline and Livia;

Signior Valentio
and his cousin Tybalt;

Lucio and the lively Helena.'

[Gives back the paper.]

A fair assembly.
Whither should they come?

Servant.

Up.

Romeo.

Whither?

Servant.

To supper, to our house.

Romeo.

Whose house?

Servant.

My master's.

Romeo.

Indeed
I should have ask'd you that
before.

Servant.

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!

Exit.

Benvolio.

At this same ancient feast
of Capulet's

Sups the fair Rosaline
whom thou so lov'st;

With all the admired beauties
of Verona.

Go thither,
and with unattainted eye

Compare her face
with some that I shall show,

And I will make thee think
thy swan a crow.

Romeo.

When the devout religion
of mine eye

Maintains such falsehood,
then turn tears to fires;

And these,
who, often drown'd,
could never die,

Transparent heretics,
be burnt for liars!

One fairer than my love?
The all-seeing sun

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

Benvolio.

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.

Romeo.

I'll go along,
no such sight to be shown,

But to rejoice
in splendour of my own.

[Exeunt.]

Scene III. Capulet's house.

Enter Capulet's Wife, and Nurse.

Lady Capulet.

Nurse, where's my daughter?
Call her forth to me.

Nurse.

Now, by my maidenhead
at twelve year old,

I bade her come.
What, lamb! what ladybird!

God forbid! Where's this girl?
What, Juliet!

Enter Juliet.

Juliet.

How now? Who calls?

Nurse.

Your mother.

Juliet.

Madam, I am here.

What is your will?

Lady Capulet.

This is the matter.—
Nurse, give leave awhile,

We must talk in secret.
Nurse, come back again;

I have rememb'red me,
thou's hear our counsel.

Thou knowest
my daughter's of a pretty age.

Nurse.

Faith,
I can tell her age unto an hour.

Lady Capulet.

She's not fourteen.

Nurse.

I'll lay fourteen of my teeth—

And yet, to my teen be it spoken,
I have but four—

She is not fourteen.
How long is it now

To Lammastide?

Lady Capulet.

A fortnight and odd days.

Nurse.

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),

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

For I had then laid wormwood
to my dug,

Sitting in the sun
under the dovehouse wall.

My lord and you
were then at Mantua.

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 dovehouse!

'Twas no need, I trow,

To bid me trudge.

And since that time
it is eleven years,

For then she could stand high-lone;
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.

'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 holidam,

The pretty wretch left crying,
and said 'Ay.'

To see now
how a jest shall come about!

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.'

Lady Capulet.

Enough of this.
I pray thee hold thy peace.

Nurse.

Yes, madam.
Yet I cannot choose but laugh

To think it should leave crying
and say 'Ay.'

And yet, I warrant,
it bad upon it brow

A bump
as big as a young cock'rel's stone;

A perilous knock;
and it cried bitterly.

'Yea,' quoth my husband,
'fall'st upon thy face?

Thou wilt fall backward
when thou comest to age;

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

Juliet.

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

Nurse.

Peace, I have done.
God mark thee to his grace!

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

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

Lady Capulet.

Marry, that 'marry'
is the very theme

I came to talk of.
Tell me, daughter Juliet,

How stands your disposition
to be married?

Juliet.

It is an honour
that I dream not of.

Nurse.

An honour?
Were not I thine only nurse,

I would say
thou hadst suck'd wisdom
from thy teat.

Lady Capulet.

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 County Paris
seeks you for his love.

Nurse.

A man, young lady!
Lady, such a man

As all the world—
why he's a man of wax.

Lady Capulet.

Verona's summer
hath not such a flower.

Nurse.

Nay, he's a flower,
in faith—a very flower.

Lady Capulet.

What say you?
Can you love the gentleman?

This night
you shall behold him at our feast.

Read o'er the volume
of young County Paris' face,

And find delight writ there
with beauty's pen;

Examine every married lineament,

And see how
one another lends content;

And what obscur'd
in this fair volume lies

Find written
in the margent of his eyes,

This precious book of love,
this unbound lover,

To beautify him only lacks a cover.

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

For fair without the fair
within to hide.

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

That in gold clasps locks
in the golden story;

So shall you share
all that he doth possess,

By having him
making yourself no less.

Nurse.

No less? Nay, bigger!
Women grow by men.

Lady Capulet.

Speak briefly,
can you like of County Paris' love?

Juliet.

I'll look to like,
if looking liking move;

But no more deep
will I endart mine eye

Than your consent gives strength
to make it fly.

Enter Servingman.

Servant.

Madam, the guests are come,
supper serv'd up,
you call'd,
my young lady ask'd for,
the nurse curs'd in the pantry,
and everything in extremity.
I must hence to wait.
I beseech you follow straight.

Lady Capulet.

We follow thee.

[Exit Servingman.]

Juliet, the County stays.

Nurse.

Go, girl,
seek happy nights to happy days.

Exeunt.

Scene IV. A street.

Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio,
with five or six other Maskers;
Torchbearers.

Romeo.

What,
shall this speech be spoke
for our excuse?

Or shall we on without apology?

Benvolio.

The date is out of such prolixity.

We'll have no Cupid
hoodwink'd with a scarf,

Bearing a Tartar's painted bow
of lath,

Scaring the ladies
like a crowkeeper;

Nor no without-book prologue,
faintly spoke
After the prompter,
for our entrance;

But,
let them measure us
by what they will,

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

Romeo.

Give me a torch.
I am not for this ambling.

Being but heavy,
I will bear the light.

Mercutio.

Nay, gentle Romeo,
we must have you dance.

Romeo.

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.

Mercutio.

You are a lover.
Borrow Cupid's wings

And soar with them
above a common bound.

Romeo.

I am too sore enpierced
with his shaft

To soar with his light feathers;
and so bound

I cannot bound a pitch
above dull woe.

Under love's heavy burthen
do I sink.

Mercutio.

And,
to sink in it,
should you burthen love—

Too great oppression
for a tender thing.

Romeo.

Is love a tender thing?
It is too rough,

Too rude, too boist'rous,
and it pricks like thorn.

Mercutio.

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.

Benvolio.

Come, knock and enter;
and no sooner in

But every man betake him
to his legs.

Romeo.

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 a candle-holder
and look on;

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

Mercutio.

Tut! Dun's the mouse,
the constable's own word!

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

Of this sir-reverence love,
wherein thou stick'st

Up to the ears.
Come, we burn daylight, ho!

Romeo.

Nay, that's not so.

Mercutio.

I mean, sir, in delay

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

Take our good meaning,
for our judgment sits

Five times
in that ere once
in our five wits.

Romeo.

And we mean well,
in going to this masque;

But 'tis no wit to go.

Mercutio.

Why, may one ask?

Romeo.

I dreamt a dream to-night.

Mercutio.

And so did I.
Romeo.
Well, what was yours?

Mercutio.

That dreamers often lie.

Romeo.

In bed asleep,
while they do dream things true.

Mercutio.

O, then I see
Queen Mab hath been with you.

She is the fairies' midwife,
and she comes

In shape no bigger
than an agate stone

On the forefinger of an alderman,

Drawn with a team of little atomies

Athwart men's noses
as they lie asleep;

Her wagon spokes
made of long spinners' legs,

The cover,
of the wings of grasshoppers;

Her traces,
of the smallest spider's web;

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

Her whip,
of cricket's bone;
the lash, of film;

Her wagoner,
a small grey-coated gnat,

Not half so big
as a round little worm

Prick'd from the lazy finger
of a maid;

Her chariot is an empty hazelnut,

Made by the joiner squirrel
or old grub,

Time out o' mind
the fairies' coachmakers.

And in this state
she 'gallops night by night

Through lovers' brains,
and then they dream of love;

O'er courtiers' knees,
that dream on curtsies straight;

O'er lawyers' fingers,
who straight dream on fees;

O'er ladies' lips,
who straight on kisses dream,

Which oft the angry Mab
with blisters plagues,

Because their breaths
with sweetmeats tainted are.

Sometime she gallops
o'er a courtier's nose,

And then dreams he
of smelling out a suit;

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

Tickling a parson's nose
as 'a lies asleep,

Then dreams he of another benefice.

Sometimes she driveth
o'er a soldier's neck,

And then dreams he
of cutting foreign throats,

Of breaches, ambuscadoes,
Spanish blades,

Of healths five fadom deep;
and then anon

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

And being thus frighted,
swears a prayer or two

And sleeps again.
This is that very Mab

That plats the manes of horses
in the night

And bakes the elflocks
in foul sluttish, hairs,

Which once untangled
much misfortune bodes

This is the hag,
when maids lie on their backs,

That presses them and
learns them first to bear,

Making them women of good carriage.

This is she—

Romeo.

Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!

Thou talk'st of nothing.

Mercutio.

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,
who wooes

Even now
the frozen bosom of the North

And, being anger'd,
puffs away from thence,

Turning his face
to the dew-dropping South.

Benvolio.

This wind you talk of
blows us from ourselves.

Supper is done,
and we shall come too late.

Romeo.

I fear, too early;
for my mind misgives

Some consequence,
yet hanging in the stars,

Shall bitterly begin
his fearful date

With this night's revels
and expire the term

Of a despised life,
clos'd in my breast,

By some vile forfeit
of untimely death.

But he that hath the steerage
of my course

Direct my sail!
On, lusty gentlemen!

Benvolio.

Strike, drum.

They march about the stage.

[Exeunt.]

Scene V. Capulet's house.

Servingmen come forth with napkins.

1. Servant.

Where's Potpan,
that he helps not to take away?
He shift a trencher!
He scrape a trencher!

2. Servant.

When good manners shall lie all
in one or two men's hands,
and they unwash'd too,
'tis a foul thing.

1. Servant.

Away with the join-stools,
remove the court-cubbert,
look to the plate.
Good thou,
save me a piece of marchpane and,
as thou loves me,
let the porter
let in Susan Grindstone and Nell.
Anthony, and Potpan!

2. Servant.

Ay, boy, ready.

1. Servant.

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

3. Servant.

We cannot be here and there too.
Cheerly, boys!
Be brisk awhile,
and the longer liver take all.

Exeunt.

Enter the Maskers,
Enter [with Servants,] Capulet,
his Wife, Juliet, Tybalt,
and all the Guests and Gentlewomen
to the Maskers.

Capulet.

Welcome, gentlemen!

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

Ah ha, my mistresses!
Which of you all

Will now deny to dance?
She that makes dainty,

She I'll swear hath corns.
Am I come near ye now?

Welcome, gentlemen!
I have seen the day

That I have worn a visor

and could tell
A whispering tale
in a fair lady's ear,
Such as would please.

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

You are welcome, gentlemen!
Come, Musicians, play.

A hall, a hall! give room!
And foot it, girls.

Music plays, and they dance.

More light, you knaves!
and turn the tables up,

And quench the fire,
the room is grown too hot.

Ah, sirrah,
this unlook'd-for sport comes well.

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

For you and I
are past our dancing days.

How long is't now
since last yourself and I

Were in a mask?

2. Capulet.

By'r Lady, thirty years.

Capulet.

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

'Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,

Come Pentecost
as quickly as it will,

Some five-and-twenty years,
and then we mask'd.

2. Capulet.

'Tis more, 'tis more!
His son is elder, sir;

His son is thirty.

Capulet.

Will you tell me that?

His son was but a ward
two years ago.

Romeo.

[to a Servingman]

What lady's that,
which doth enrich the hand

Of yonder knight?

Servant.

I know not, sir.

Romeo.

O, she doth teach the torches
to burn bright!

It seems she hangs upon
the cheek of night

Like a rich jewel
in an Ethiop's ear—

Beauty too rich for use,
for earth too dear!

So shows a snowy dove
trooping with crows

As yonder lady
o'er her fellows shows.

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!

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

Tybalt.

This, by his voice,
should be a Montague.

Fetch me my rapier, boy.
What, dares the slave

Come hither,
cover'd with an antic face,

To fleer and scorn
at our solemnity?

Now, by the stock and honour
of my kin,

To strike him dead
I hold it not a sin.

Capulet.

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

Tybalt.

Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe;

A villain
that is hither come in spite

To scorn at our solemnity
this night.

Capulet.

Young Romeo is it?

Tybalt.

'Tis he, that villain Romeo.

Capulet.

Content thee, gentle coz,
let him alone.

'A bears him
like a portly gentleman,

And, to say truth,
Verona brags of him

To be a virtuous
and well-govern'd youth.

I would not for the wealth
of all this town

Here in my house
do him disparagement.

Therefore be patient,
take no note of him.

It is my will;
the which if thou respect,

Show a fair presence
and put off these frowns,

An ill-beseeming semblance
for a feast.

Tybalt.

It fits
when such a villain is a guest.

I'll not endure him.

Capulet.

He shall be endur'd.

What, goodman boy?
I say he shall.
Go to!

Am I the master here, or you?
Go to!

You'll not endure him?
God shall mend my soul!

You'll make a mutiny
among my guests!

You will set cock-a-hoop!
You'll be the man!

Tybalt.

Why, uncle, 'tis a shame.

Capulet.

Go to, go to!

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

This trick
may chance to scathe you.
I know what.

You must contrary me!
Marry, 'tis time.–

Well said, my hearts!–
You are a princox–go!

Be quiet, or–
More light, more light!–
For shame!

I'll make you quiet;
What! Cheerly, my hearts!

Tybalt.

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 bitt'rest gall.

Exit.

Romeo.

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.

Juliet.

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.

Romeo.

Have not saints lips,
and holy palmers too?

Juliet.

Ay, pilgrim,
lips that they must use in pray'r.

Romeo.

O, then, dear saint,
let lips do what hands do!

They pray; grant thou,
lest faith turn to despair.

Juliet.

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

Romeo.

Then move not
while my prayer's effect I take.

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

[Kisses her.]

Juliet.

Then have my lips
the sin that they have took.

Romeo.

Sin from my lips?
O trespass sweetly urg'd!

Give me my sin again.

[Kisses her.]

Juliet.

You kiss by th' book.

Nurse.

Madam,
your mother craves a word with you.

Romeo.

What is her mother?

Nurse.

Marry, bachelor,

Her mother
is the lady of the house.

And a good lady,
and a wise and virtuous.

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

I tell you,
he that can lay hold of her

Shall have the chinks.

Romeo.

Is she a Capulet?

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

Benvolio.

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

Romeo.

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

Capulet.

Nay, gentlemen,
prepare not to be gone;

We have a trifling foolish banquet
towards.

Is it e'en so?
Why then, I thank you all.

I thank you, honest gentlemen.
Good night.

More torches here!

[Exeunt Maskers.]

Come on then, let's to bed.

Ah, sirrah, by my fay,
it waxes late;

I'll to my rest.

Exeunt
[all but Juliet and Nurse.]

Juliet.

Come hither, nurse.
What is yond gentleman?

Nurse.

The son and heir of old Tiberio.

Juliet.

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

Nurse.

Marry, that, I think,
be young Petruchio.

Juliet.

What's he that follows there,
that would not dance?

Nurse.

I know not.

Juliet.

Go ask his name.—
If he be married,

My grave
is like to be my wedding bed.

Nurse.

His name is Romeo, and a Montague,

The only son of your great enemy.

Juliet.

My only love,
sprung from my only hate!

Too early seen unknown,
and known too late!

Prodigious birth of love
it is to me

That I must love a loathed enemy.

Nurse.

What's this? what's this?

Juliet.

A rhyme I learnt even now

Of one I danc'd withal.

One calls within, 'Juliet.'

Nurse.

Anon, anon!

Come, let's away;
the strangers all are gone.

Exeunt.

PROLOGUE

Enter Chorus.

Chorus.

Now old desire
doth in his deathbed lie,

And young affection
gapes to be his heir;

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

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

Now Romeo is belov'd,
and loves again,

Alike bewitched
by the charm of looks;

But to his foe suppos'd
he must complain,

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

Being held a foe,
he may not have access

To breathe such vows
as lovers use to swear,

And she as much in love,
her means much less

To meet her new beloved anywhere;

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

Temp'ring extremities
with extreme sweet.

Exit.

ACT II.

Scene I. A lane by the wall
of Capulet's orchard.

Enter Romeo alone.

Romeo.

Can I go forward
when my heart is here?

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

[Climbs the wall
and leaps down within it.]

Enter Benvolio with Mercutio.

Benvolio.

Romeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!

Mercutio.

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

Benvolio.

He ran this way,
and leapt this orchard wall.

Call, good Mercutio.

Mercutio.

Nay, I'll conjure too.

Romeo!
Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover!

Appear thou
in the likeness of a sigh;

Speak but one rhyme,
and I am satisfied!

Cry but 'Ay me!'
Pronounce but 'love' and 'dove';

Speak to my gossip Venus
one fair word,

One nickname
for her purblind son and heir,

Young Adam Cupid,
he that shot so trim

When King Cophetua
lov'd the beggar maid!

He heareth not,
he stirreth not,
be moveth not;

The ape is dead,
and I must conjure him.

I conjure thee
by Rosaline's bright eyes.

By her high forehead
and her scarlet lip,

By her fine foot, straight leg,
and quivering thigh,

And the demesnes
that there adjacent lie,

That in thy likeness
thou appear to us!

Benvolio.

An if he hear thee,
thou wilt anger him.

Mercutio.

This cannot anger him.
'Twould anger him

To raise a spirit
in his mistress' circle

Of some strange nature,
letting it there stand

Till she had laid it
and conjur'd it down.

That were some spite;
my invocation

Is fair and honest:
in his mistress' name,

I conjure only but to raise up him.

Benvolio.

Come,
he hath hid himself
among these trees

To be consorted
with the humorous night.

Blind is his love
and best befits the dark.

Mercutio.

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 et cetera,
thou a pop'rin pear!

Romeo, good night.
I'll to my truckle-bed;

This field-bed is too cold
for me to sleep.

Come, shall we go?

Benvolio.

Go then, for 'tis in vain

'To seek him here
that means not to be found.

Exeunt.

Scene II. Capulet's orchard.

Enter Romeo.

Romeo.

He jests at scars
that never felt a wound.

Enter Juliet above at a window.

But soft! What light
through yonder window breaks?

It is the East,
and Juliet is the sun!

Arise, fair sun,
and kill the envious moon,

Who is already sick
and pale with grief

That thou her maid
art far more fair than she.

Be not her maid,
since she is envious.

Her vestal livery
is but sick and green,

And none but fools do wear it.
Cast it off.

It is my lady; O, it is my love!

O that she knew she were!

She speaks, yet she says nothing.
What of that?

Her eye discourses;
I will answer it.

I am too bold;
'tis not to me she speaks.

Two of the fairest stars
in all the heaven,

Having some business,
do entreat her eyes

To twinkle in their spheres
till they return.

What if her eyes were there,
they in her head?

The brightness of her cheek
would shame those stars

As daylight doth a lamp;
her eyes in heaven

Would through the airy region
stream so bright

That birds would sing
and think it were not night.

See how she leans her cheek
upon her hand!

O that I were a glove
upon that hand,

That I might touch that cheek!

Juliet.

Ay me!

Romeo.

She speaks.

O, speak again, bright angel!
for thou art

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

As is a winged messenger of heaven

Unto the white-upturned
wond'ring eyes

Of mortals that fall back
to gaze on him

When he bestrides
the lazy-pacing clouds

And sails upon
the bosom of the air.

Juliet.

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.

Romeo. [aside]

Shall I hear more,
or shall I speak at this?

Juliet.

'Tis but thy name that is my enemy.

Thou art thyself,
though not a Montague.

What's Montague?
It is nor hand, nor foot,

Nor arm, nor face,
nor any other part

Belonging to a man.
O, be some other name!

What's in a name?
That which we call a rose

By any other name
would smell as sweet.

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

Retain that dear perfection
which he owes

Without that title.
Romeo, doff thy name;

And for that name,
which is no part of thee,

Take all myself.

Romeo.

I take thee at thy word.

Call me but love,
and I'll be new baptiz'd;

Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

Juliet.

What man art thou that,
thus bescreen'd in night,

So stumblest on my counsel?

Romeo.

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.

Juliet.

My ears have yet not drunk
a hundred words

Of that tongue's utterance,
yet I know the sound.

Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

Romeo.

Neither, fair saint,
if either thee dislike.

Juliet.

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.

Romeo.

With love's light wings
did I o'erperch these walls;

For stony limits
cannot hold love out,

And what love can do,
that dares love attempt.

Therefore
thy kinsmen are no let to me.

Juliet.

If they do see thee,
they will murther thee.

Romeo.

Alack,
there lies more peril in thine eye

Than twenty of their swords!
Look thou but sweet,

And I am proof
against their enmity.

Juliet.

I would not for the world
they saw thee here.

Romeo.

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.

Juliet.

By whose direction
found'st thou out this place?

Romeo.

By love,
that first did prompt me
to enquire.

He lent me counsel,
and I lent him eyes.

I am no pilot;
yet, wert thou as far

As that vast shore wash'd
with the farthest sea,

I would adventure
for such merchandise.

Juliet.

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 to-night.

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.
Yet, if thou swear'st,

Thou mayst prove false.
At lovers' perjuries,

They say Jove laughs.
O gentle Romeo,

If thou dost love,
pronounce it faithfully.

Or if thou thinkest
I am too quickly won,

I'll frown, and be perverse,
and say thee nay,

So thou wilt woo;
but else, not for the world.

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.

Romeo.

Lady, by yonder blessed moon
I swear,

That tips with silver
all these fruit-tree tops—

Juliet.

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

That monthly changes
in her circled orb,

Lest that thy love
prove likewise variable.

Romeo.

What shall I swear by?

Juliet.

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.

Romeo.

If my heart's dear love—

Juliet.

Well, do not swear.
Although I 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, good night!

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

May prove a beauteous flow'r
when next we meet.

Good night, good night!
As sweet repose and rest

Come to thy heart
as that within my breast!

Romeo.

O, wilt thou leave me
so unsatisfied?

Juliet.

What satisfaction
canst thou have to-night?

Romeo.

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

Juliet.

I gave thee mine
before thou didst request it;

And yet I would
it were to give again.

Romeo.

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

Juliet.

But to be frank
and give it thee again.

And yet I wish
but for the thing I have.

My bounty
is as boundless as the sea,

My love as deep;
the more I give to thee,

The more I have,
for both are infinite.

I hear some noise within.
Dear love, adieu!

[Nurse calls within.]

Anon, good nurse!
Sweet Montague, be true.

Stay but a little,
I will come again.

[Exit.]

Romeo.

O blessed, blessed night!
I am afeard,

Being in night,
all this is but a dream,

Too flattering-sweet
to be substantial.

Enter Juliet above.

Juliet.

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.

Nurse. (within) Madam!

Juliet.

I come, anon.—
But if thou meanest not well,

I do beseech thee—

Nurse.
(within) Madam!

Juliet.

By-and-by I come.—

To cease thy suit
and leave me to my grief.

To-morrow will I send.

Romeo.

So thrive my soul—

Juliet.

A thousand times good night!

Exit.

Romeo.

A thousand times the worse,
to want thy light!

Love goes toward love
as schoolboys from their books;

But love from love,
towards school with heavy looks.

Enter Juliet again, [above.]

Juliet.

Hist! Romeo, hist!
O for a falconer's voice

To lure this tassel-gentle
back again!

Bondage is hoarse
and may not speak aloud;

Else would I tear the cave
where Echo lies,

And make her airy tongue
more hoarse than mine

With repetition
of my Romeo's name.

Romeo!

Romeo.

It is my soul
that calls upon my name.

How silver-sweet sound
lovers' tongues by night,

Like softest music
to attending ears!

Juliet.

Romeo!

Romeo.

My dear?

Juliet.

At what o'clock to-morrow

Shall I send to thee?

Romeo.

By the hour of nine.

Juliet.

I will not fail.
'Tis twenty years till then.

I have forgot
why I did call thee back.

Romeo.

Let me stand here
till thou remember it.

Juliet.

I shall forget,
to have thee still stand there,

Rememb'ring how I love thy company.

Romeo.

And I'll still stay,
to have thee still forget,

Forgetting any other home but this.

Juliet.

'Tis almost morning.
I would have thee gone—

And yet no farther
than a wanton's bird,

That lets it hop a little
from her hand,

Like a poor prisoner
in his twisted gyves,

And with a silk thread
plucks it back again,

So loving-jealous of his liberty.

Romeo.

I would I were thy bird.

Juliet.

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.

[Exit.]

Romeo.

Sleep dwell upon thine eyes,
peace in thy breast!

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

Hence will I
to my ghostly father's cell,

His help to crave
and my dear hap to tell.

Exit

Scene III. Friar Laurence's cell.

Enter Friar [Laurence],
alone, with a basket.

Friar.

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

Check'ring the Eastern clouds
with streaks of light;

And flecked darkness
like a drunkard reels

From forth day's path
and Titan's fiery wheels.

Now,
ere the sun advance his burning eye

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

I must up-fill this osier cage
of ours

With baleful weeds
and precious-juiced flowers.

The earth that's nature's mother
is her tomb.

What is her burying grave,
that is her womb;

And from her womb
children of divers kind

We
sucking on her natural bosom find;

Many for many virtues excellent,

None but for some,
and yet all different.

O,
mickle is the powerful grace
that lies

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

For naught so vile
that on the earth doth live

But to the earth
some special good doth give;

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

Revolts from true birth,
stumbling on abuse.

Virtue itself turns vice,
being misapplied,

And vice sometime's
by action dignified.

Within the infant rind
of this small flower

Poison hath residence,
and medicine power;

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

Being tasted,
slays all senses with the heart.

Two such opposed kings
encamp them still

In man as well as herbs–
grace and rude will;

And where the worser
is predominant,

Full soon
the canker death
eats up that plant.

Enter Romeo.

Romeo.

Good morrow, father.

Friar.

Benedicite!

What early tongue
so sweet saluteth me?

Young son,
it argues a distempered 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 uprous'd
with some distemp'rature;

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

Our Romeo
hath not been in bed to-night.

Romeo.

That last is true–
the sweeter rest was mine.

Friar.

God pardon sin!
Wast thou with Rosaline?

Romeo.

With Rosaline, my ghostly father?
No.

I have forgot that name,
and that name's woe.

Friar.

That's my good son!
But where hast thou been then?

Romeo.

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

I have been feasting
with mine enemy,

Where on a sudden
one hath wounded me

That's by me wounded.
Both our remedies

Within thy help
and holy physic lies.

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

My intercession
likewise steads my foe.

Friar.

Be plain, good son,
and homely in thy drift

Riddling confession
finds but riddling shrift.

Romeo.

Then plainly know
my heart's dear love is set

On the fair daughter
of rich Capulet;

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

And all combin'd,
save what thou must combine

By holy marriage.
When, and where, and how

We met, we woo'd,
and made exchange of vow,

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

That thou consent
to marry us to-day.

Friar.

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 wash'd thy sallow cheeks
for Rosaline!

How much salt water
thrown away in waste,

To season love,
that of it doth not taste!

The sun not yet thy sighs
from heaven clears,

Thy old groans ring yet
in mine ancient ears.

Lo, here upon thy cheek
the stain doth sit

Of an old tear
that is not wash'd off yet.

If e'er thou wast thyself,
and these woes thine,

Thou and these woes
were all for Rosaline.

And art thou chang'd?
Pronounce this sentence then:

Women may fall
when there's no strength in men.

Romeo.

Thou chid'st me oft
for loving Rosaline.

Friar.

For doting, not for loving,
pupil mine.

Romeo.

And bad'st me bury love.

Friar.

Not in a grave

To lay one in,
another out to have.

Romeo.

I pray thee chide not.
She whom I love now

Doth grace for grace
and love for love allow.

The other did not so.

Friar.

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.

Romeo.

O, let us hence!
I stand on sudden haste.

Friar.

Wisely, and slow.
They stumble that run fast.

Exeunt.

Scene IV. A street.

Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.

Mercutio.

Where the devil
should this Romeo be?

Came he not home to-night?

Benvolio.

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

Mercutio.

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

Torments him
so that he will sure run mad.

Benvolio.

Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet,

Hath sent a letter
to his father's house.

Mercutio.

A challenge, on my life.

Benvolio.

Romeo will answer it.

Mercutio.

Any man
that can write
may answer a letter.

Benvolio.

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

Mercutio.

Alas, poor Romeo,
he is already dead!
stabb'd
with a white wench's black eye;
shot through the ear
with a love song;
the very pin of his heart
cleft with
the blind bow-boy's butt-shaft;
and is he a man
to encounter Tybalt?

Benvolio.

Why, what is Tybalt?

Mercutio.

More than Prince of Cats,
I can tell you.
O, he's the courageous captain
of compliments.
He fights
as you sing pricksong,
keeps time, distance,
and proportion;
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 reverse!
The hay!

Benvolio.

The what?

Mercutio.

The pox of such antic,
lisping, affecting fantasticoes—
these new tuners of accent!
'By Jesu, a very good blade!
a very tall man!
a very good whore!'
Why,
is not this a lamentable thing,
grandsir,
that we should be thus afflicted
with these strange flies,
these fashion-mongers,
these pardona-mi's,
who stand so much on the new form
that they cannot sit at ease
on the old bench?
O, their bones, their bones!

Enter Romeo.

Benvolio.

Here comes Romeo!
Here comes Romeo!

Mercutio.

Without his roe,
like a dried herring.
O flesh, flesh,
how art thou fishified!
Now is he for the numbers
that Petrarch flowed in.
Laura, to his lady,
was but a kitchen wench
(marry, she had a

better love to berhyme her),
Dido a dowdy,
Cleopatra a gypsy,
Helen and Hero
hildings and harlots,
Thisbe a gray eye or so,
but not to the purpose.
Signior Romeo, bon jour!
There's a French salutation
to your French slop.
You gave us the counterfeit fairly
last night.

Romeo.

Good morrow to you both.
What counterfeit did I give you?

Mercutio.

The slip, sir, the slip.
Can you not conceive?

Romeo.

Pardon, good Mercutio.
My business was great,
and in such a case as mine
a man may strain courtesy.

Mercutio.

That's as much as to say,
such a case as yours
constrains a man
to bow in the hams.

Romeo.

Meaning, to curtsy.

Mercutio.

Thou hast most kindly hit it.

Romeo.

A most courteous exposition.

Mercutio.

Nay,
I am the very pink of courtesy.

Romeo.

Pink for flower.

Mercutio.

Right.

Romeo.

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

Mercutio.

Well said!
Follow me this jest now
till thou hast worn out thy pump,
that,
when the single sole of it is worn,
the jest may remain,
after the wearing,
solely singular.

Romeo.

O single-soled jest,
solely singular for the singleness!

Mercutio.

Come between us, good Benvolio!
My wits faint.

Romeo.

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

Mercutio.

Nay, if our wits
run the wild-goose chase,
I am done;
for thou hast more
of the wild goose
in one of thy wits than,
I am sure, I have in my whole five.
Was I with you there for the goose?

Romeo.

Thou wast never with me
for anything
when thou wast not there
for the goose.

Mercutio.

I will bite thee by the ear
for that jest.

Romeo.

Nay, good goose, bite not!

Mercutio.

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

Romeo.

And is it not, then,
well serv'd in to a sweet goose?

Mercutio.

O, here's a wit of cheveril,
that stretches
from an inch narrow
to an ell broad!

Romeo.

I stretch it out
for that word 'broad,'
which, added to the goose,
proves thee far and wide
a broad goose.

Mercutio.

Why, is not this better now
than groaning for love?
Now art thou sociable,
now art thou Romeo;
now art thou what thou art,
by art as well as by nature.
For this drivelling love
is like a great natural
that runs lolling up and down
to hide his bauble in a hole.

Benvolio.

Stop there, stop there!

Mercutio.

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

Benvolio.

Thou wouldst else
have made thy tale large.

Mercutio.

O, thou art deceiv'd!
I would have made it short;
for I was come
to the whole depth of my tale,
and meant indeed
to occupy the argument no longer.

Romeo.

Here's goodly gear!

Enter Nurse and her Man [Peter].

Mercutio.

A sail, a sail!

Benvolio.

Two, two!
a shirt and a smock.

Nurse.

Peter!

Peter.

Anon.

Nurse.

My fan, Peter.

Mercutio.

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

Nurse.

God ye good morrow, gentlemen.

Mercutio.

God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman.

Nurse.

Is it good-den?

Mercutio.

'Tis no less, I tell ye;
for the bawdy hand of the dial
is now upon the prick of noon.

Nurse.

Out upon you!
What a man are you!

Romeo.

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

Nurse.

By my troth, it is well said.
'For himself to mar,' quoth 'a?
Gentlemen,
can any of you tell me
where I may find the young Romeo?

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.

Nurse.

You say well.

Mercutio.

Yea, is the worst well?
Very well took, i' faith!
wisely, wisely.

Nurse.

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

Benvolio.

She will endite him to some supper.

Mercutio.

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

Romeo.

What hast thou found?

Mercutio.

No hare, sir;
unless a hare, sir,
in a lenten pie,
that is something stale and hoar
ere it be spent.

He walks by them and sings.

An old hare hoar,

And an old hare hoar,

Is very good meat in Lent;

But a hare that is hoar

Is too much for a score

When it hoars ere it be spent.

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

Romeo.

I will follow you.

Mercutio.

Farewell, ancient lady.
Farewell,

[sings]

lady, lady, lady.

Exeunt Mercutio, Benvolio.

Nurse.

Marry, farewell!
I Pray you, Sir,
what saucy merchant was this
that was so full of his ropery?

Romeo.

A gentleman, nurse,
that loves to hear himself talk
and will speak more in a minute
than he will stand to in a month.

Nurse.

An 'a speak anything against me,
I'll take him down,
an 'a were lustier than he is,
and twenty such jacks;
and if I cannot,
I'll find those that shall.
Scurvy knave!
I am none of his flirt-gills;
I am none of his skains-mates.
And thou must stand by too,
and suffer every knave
to use me at his pleasure!

Peter.

I saw no man use you
at his pleasure.
If I had, my weapon should quickly
have been out,
I warrant you.
I dare draw as soon as another man,
if I see occasion
in a good quarrel,
and the law on my side.

Nurse.

Now, afore God,
I am so vexed
that every part about me quivers.
Scurvy knave!
Pray you, sir, a word;
and, as I told you,
my young lady
bid me enquire you out.
What she bid me say,
I will keep to myself;
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 off'red to any gentlewoman,
and very weak dealing.

Romeo.

Nurse,
commend me to thy lady
and mistress.
I protest unto thee—

Nurse.

Good heart, and i' faith
I will tell her as much.
Lord, Lord!
she will be a joyful woman.

Romeo.

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

Nurse.

I will tell her, sir,
that you do protest,
which,
as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer.

Romeo.

Bid her devise

Some means to come to shrift
this afternoon;

And there she shall
at Friar Laurence' cell

Be shriv'd and married.
Here is for thy pains.

Nurse.

No, truly, sir; not a penny.

Romeo.

Go to!
I say you shall.

Nurse.

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

Romeo.

And stay, good nurse,
behind the abbey wall.

Within this hour
my man shall be with thee

And bring thee cords
made like a tackled stair,

Which to the high topgallant
of my joy

Must be my convoy
in the secret night.

Farewell.
Be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains.

Farewell.
Commend me to thy mistress.

Nurse.

Now God in heaven bless thee!
Hark you, sir.

Romeo.

What say'st thou, my dear nurse?

Nurse.

Is your man secret?
Did you ne'er hear say,
Two may keep counsel,
putting one away?

Romeo.

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

Nurse.

Well, sir,
my mistress is the sweetest lady.
Lord, Lord!
when 'twas a little prating thing—
O, there is a nobleman in town,
one County Paris,
that would fain lay knife aboard;
but she, good soul,
had as lieve see a toad,
a very toad,
as see him.
I anger her sometimes,
and tell her
that County Paris
is the properer man;
but I'll warrant you,
when I say so,
she looks as pale
as any clout
in the versal world.
Doth not rosemary and Romeo
begin both with a letter?

Romeo.

Ay, nurse; what of that?
Both with an R.

Nurse.

Ah, mocker!
that's the dog's name.
R is for the—
No; I know it begins
with some other letter;
and she hath
the prettiest sententious of it,
of you and rosemary,
that it would do you good
to hear it.

Romeo.

Commend me to thy lady.

Nurse.

Ay, a thousand times.

[Exit Romeo.]

Peter!

Peter.

Anon.

Nurse.
Peter, take my fan,
and go before, and apace.

Exeunt.

Scene V. Capulet's orchard.

Enter Juliet.

Juliet.

The clock struck nine
when I did send the nurse;

In half an hour
she promis'd to return.

Perchance she cannot meet him.
That's not so.

O, she is lame!
Love's heralds should be thoughts,

Which ten times faster glide
than the sun's beams

Driving back shadows
over low'ring hills.

Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves
draw Love,

And therefore hath
the wind-swift Cupid wings.

Now is the sun
upon the highmost hill

Of this day's journey,
and from nine till twelve

Is three long hours;
yet she is not come.

Had she affections and
warm youthful blood,

She would be as swift in motion
as a ball;

My words would bandy her
to my sweet love,

And his to me,

But old folks,
many feign as they were dead—

Unwieldy, slow, heavy
and pale as lead.

Enter Nurse [and Peter].

O God, she comes!
O honey nurse, what news?

Hast thou met with him?
Send thy man away.

Nurse.

Peter, stay at the gate.

[Exit Peter.]

Juliet.

Now, good sweet nurse–
O Lord, why look'st thou sad?

Though news be sad,
yet tell them merrily;

If good,
thou shamest the music
of sweet news

By playing it to me
with so sour a face.

Nurse.

I am aweary, give me leave awhile.

Fie, how my bones ache!
What a jaunce have I had!

Juliet.

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

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

Nurse.

Jesu, what haste!
Can you not stay awhile?

Do you not see
that I am out of breath?

Juliet.

How art thou out of breath
when thou hast breath

To say to me
that thou art out of breath?

The excuse that thou dost make
in this delay

Is longer than the tale
thou dost excuse.

Is thy news good or bad?
Answer to that.

Say either,
and I'll stay the circumstance.

Let me be satisfied,
is't good or bad?

Nurse.

Well,
you have made a simple choice;
you know not how to choose a man.
Romeo? No, not he.
Though his face be better

than any man's,
yet his leg excels all men's;
and for a hand and a foot,
and a body,
though they be not to be talk'd on,
yet they are past compare.
He is not the flower of courtesy,
but, I'll warrant him,
as gentle as a lamb.
Go thy ways, wench; serve God.

What, have you din'd at home?

Juliet.

No, no.
But all this did I know before.

What says he of our marriage?
What of that?

Nurse.

Lord, how my head aches!
What a head have I!

It beats
as it would fall in twenty pieces.

My back o' t' other side,–
ah, my back, my back!

Beshrew your heart
for sending me about

To catch my death
with jauncing up and down!

Juliet.

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

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

Nurse.

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?

Juliet.

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?"'

Nurse.

O God's Lady dear!

Are you so hot?
Marry come up, I trow.

Is this the poultice
for my aching bones?

Henceforward
do your messages yourself.

Juliet.

Here's such a coil!
Come, what says Romeo?

Nurse.

Have you got leave
to go to shrift to-day?

Juliet.

I have.

Nurse.

Then hie you hence
to Friar Laurence' cell;

There stays a husband
to make you a wife.

Now comes the wanton blood
up in your cheeks:

They'll be in scarlet straight
at any news.

Hie you to church;
I must another way,

To fetch a ladder,
by the which your love

must climb a bird's nest soon
when it is dark.

I am the drudge,
and toil in your delight;

But you shall bear the burthen
soon at night.

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

Juliet.

Hie to high fortune!
Honest nurse, farewell.

Exeunt.

Scene VI.
Friar Laurence's cell.

Enter Friar [Laurence] and Romeo.

Friar.

So smile the heavens
upon this holy act

That after-hours with sorrow
chide us not!

Romeo.

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.

Friar.

These violent delights
have violent ends

And in their triumph die,
like fire and powder,

Which, as they kiss, consume.
The sweetest honey

Is loathsome
in his own deliciousness

And in the taste
confounds the appetite.

Therefore love moderately:
long love doth so;

Too swift arrives
as tardy as too slow.

Enter Juliet.

Here comes the lady.
O, so light a foot

Will ne'er wear out
the everlasting flint.

A lover may bestride the gossamer

That idles
in the wanton summer air,

And yet not fall;
so light is vanity.

Juliet.

Good even to my ghostly confessor.

Friar.

Romeo shall thank thee, daughter,
for us both.

Juliet.

As much to him,
else is his thanks too much.

Romeo.

Ah, Juliet,
if the measure of thy joy

Be heap'd like mine,
and that thy skill be more

To blazon it,
then sweeten with thy breath

This neighbour air,
and let rich music's tongue

Unfold the imagin'd happiness
that both

Receive in either
by this dear encounter.

Juliet.

Conceit,
more rich in matter than in words,

Brags of his substance,
not of ornament.

They are but beggars
that can count their worth;

But my true love
is grown to such excess

cannot sum up
sum of half my wealth.

Friar.

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.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III.

Scene I. A public place.

Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, and Men.

Benvolio.

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

The day is hot,
the Capulets abroad.

And if we meet,
we shall not scap a brawl,

For now, these hot days,
is the mad blood stirring.

Mercutio.

Thou art like one of these fellows
that, when he enters
the confines of a tavern,
claps me his sword upon the table
and says
'God send me no need of thee!'
and by the operation
of the second cup
draws him on the drawer,
when indeed there is no need.

Benvolio.

Am I like such a fellow?

Mercutio.

Come, come,
thou art as hot a jack in thy mood
as any in Italy;
and as soon moved to be moody,
and as soon moody to be moved.

Benvolio.

And what to?

Mercutio.

Nay, an there were two such,
we should have none shortly,
for one would kill the other.
Thou! why,
thou wilt quarrel with a man
that hath a hair more
or a hair less in his beard
than thou hast.
Thou wilt quarrel with a man
for cracking nuts,
having no other reason
but because thou hast hazel eyes.
What eye but such an eye
would spy out such a quarrel?
Thy head is as full of quarrels
as an egg is full of meat;
and yet thy head hath been beaten
as addle as an egg
for quarrelling.
Thou hast quarrell'd with a man
for coughing in the street,
because he hath wakened thy dog
that hath lain asleep in the sun.
Didst thou not fall out
with a tailor
for wearing his new doublet
before Easter,
with another
for tying his new shoes
with an old riband?
And yet thou wilt tutor me
from quarrelling!

Benvolio.

An I were so apt to quarrel
as thou art,
any man should buy
the fee simple of my life
for an hour and a quarter.

Mercutio.

The fee simple?
O simple!

Enter Tybalt and others.

Benvolio.

By my head, here come the Capulets.

Mercutio.

By my heel, I care not.

Tybalt.

Follow me close,
for I will speak to them.

Gentlemen, good den.
A word with one of you.

Mercutio.

And but one word with one of us?

Couple it with something;
make it a word and a blow.

Tybalt.

You shall find me apt enough
to that, sir,
an you will give me occasion.

Mercutio.

Could you not take some occasion
without giving?

Tybalt.

Mercutio,
thou consortest with Romeo.

Mercutio.

Consort?
What, dost thou make us minstrels?
An thou make minstrels of us,
look to hear nothing but discords.
Here's my fiddlestick;
here's that shall make you dance.
Zounds, consort!

Benvolio.

We talk here
in the public haunt of men.

Either withdraw
unto some private place

And reason coldly
of your grievances,

Or else depart.
Here all eyes gaze on us.

Mercutio.

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

I will not budge
for no man's pleasure,

Enter Romeo.

Tybalt.

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

Mercutio.

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

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

Your worship in that sense
may call him man.

Tybalt.

Romeo,
the love I bear thee can afford

No better term than this:
thou art a villain.

Romeo.

Tybalt,
the reason that I have to love thee

Doth much excuse
the appertaining rage

To such a greeting.
Villain am I none.

Therefore farewell.
I see thou knowest me not.

Tybalt.

Boy,
this shall not excuse the injuries

That thou hast done me;
therefore turn and draw.

Romeo.

I do protest I never injur'd thee,

But love thee better
than thou canst devise

Till thou shalt know
the reason of my love;

And so good Capulet,
which name I tender

As dearly as mine own,
be satisfied.

Mercutio.

O calm, dishonourable,
vile submission!

Alla stoccata carries it away.

[Draws.]

Tybalt, you ratcatcher,
will you walk?

Tybalt.

What wouldst thou have with me?

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,
dry-beat 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.

Tybalt.

I am for you.

[Draws.]

Romeo.

Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.

Mercutio.

Come, sir, your passado!

[They fight.]

Romeo.

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!

Tybalt under Romeo's arm
thrusts Mercutio in, and flies
[with his Followers.]

Mercutio.

I am hurt.

A plague o' both your houses!
I am sped.

Is he gone and hath nothing?

Benvolio.

What, art thou hurt?

Mercutio.

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

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

[Exit Page.]

Romeo.

Courage, man.
The hurt cannot be much.

Mercutio.

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 o' both your houses!
Zounds,
a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat,
to scratch a man to death!
a braggart, a rogue, a villain,
that fights
by the book of arithmetic!
Why the devil came you between us?
I was hurt under your arm.

Romeo.

I thought all for the best.

Mercutio.

Help me into some house, Benvolio,
Or I shall faint.
A plague o' both your houses!

They have made worms' meat of me.
I have it, And soundly too.
Your houses!

Exit.
[supported by Benvolio.]

Romeo.

This gentleman,
the Prince's near ally,

My very friend,
hath got this 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
soft'ned valour's steel

Enter Benvolio.

Benvolio.

O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio's dead!

That gallant spirit
hath aspir'd the clouds,

Which too untimely here
did scorn the earth.

Romeo.

This day's black fate
on moe days doth depend;

This but begins the woe
others must end.

Enter Tybalt.

Benvolio.

Here comes the furious Tybalt
back again.

Romeo.

Alive in triumph,
and Mercutio slain?

Away to heaven respective lenity,

And fire-ey'd 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.

Tybalt.

Thou, wretched boy,
that didst consort him here,

Shalt with him hence.

Romeo.

This shall determine that.

They fight.
Tybalt falls.

Benvolio.

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!

Romeo.

O, I am fortune's fool!

Benvolio.

Why dost thou stay?

Exit Romeo.

Enter Citizens.

Citizen.

Which way ran he
that kill'd Mercutio?

Tybalt, that murtherer,
which way ran he?

Benvolio.

There lies that Tybalt.

Citizen.

Up, sir, go with me.

I charge thee
in the Prince's name obey.

Enter Prince
[attended],
Old Montague, Capulet,
their Wives, and others.

Prince.

Where are the vile beginners
of this fray?

Benvolio.

O noble Prince.
I can discover all

The unlucky manage
of this fatal brawl.

There lies the man,
slain by young Romeo,

That slew thy kinsman,
brave Mercutio.

Lady Capulet.

Tybalt, my cousin!
O my brother's child!

O Prince! O 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!

Prince.

Benvolio,
who began this bloody fray?

Benvolio.

Tybalt, here slain,
whom Romeo's hand did stay.

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 entertain'd revenge,

And to't they go like lightning;
for, ere I

Could draw to part them,
was stout Tybalt slain;

And, as he fell,
did Romeo turn and fly.

This is the truth,
or let Benvolio die.

Lady Capulet. 

He is a kinsman to the Montague;

Affection makes him false,
he speaks not true.

Some twenty of them 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.

Prince.

Romeo slew him; he slew Mercutio.

Who now the price of his dear blood
doth owe?

Montague.

Not Romeo, Prince;
he was Mercutio's friend;

His fault concludes
but what the law should end,

The life of Tybalt.

Prince.

And for that offence

Immediately we do exile him hence.

I have an interest
in your hate's proceeding,

My blood for your rude brawls
doth lie a-bleeding;

But I'll amerce you
with so strong a fine

That you shall all repent
the loss of mine.

I will be deaf to pleading
and excuses;

Nor tears nor prayers
shall purchase out abuses.

Therefore use none.
Let Romeo hence in haste,

Else, when he is found,
that hour is his last.

Bear hence this body,
and attend our will.

Mercy but murders,
pardoning those that kill.

Exeunt.

Scene II. Capulet's orchard.

Enter Juliet alone.

Juliet.

Gallop apace,
you fiery-footed steeds,

Towards Phoebus' lodging!
Such a wagoner

As Phaeton
would whip you to the West

And bring in cloudy night
immediately.

Spread thy close curtain,
love-performing night,

That runaway eyes may wink,
and Romeo

Leap to these arms
untalk'd of and unseen.

Lovers can see
to do their amorous rites

By their own beauties;
or, if love be blind,

It best agrees with night.
Come, civil night,

Thou sober-suited matron,
all in black,

And learn me
how to lose a winning match,

Play'd for
a pair of stainless maidenhoods.

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

With thy black mantle
till strange love, grown bold,

Think true love
acted simple modesty.

Come, night; come, Romeo; come,
thou day in night;

For thou wilt lie
upon the wings of night

Whiter than new snow
upon a raven's back.

Come, gentle night;
come, loving, black-brow'd night;

Give me my Romeo;
and, when he shall die,

Take him
and cut him out in little stars,

And he 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,

Enter Nurse, with cords.

And she brings news;
and every tongue that speaks

But Romeo's name
speaks heavenly eloquence.

Now, nurse, what news?
What hast thou there? the cords

That Romeo bid thee fetch?

Nurse.

Ay, ay, the cords.

[Throws them down.]

Juliet.

Ay me!
what news?
Why dost thou wring thy hands?

Nurse.

Ah, weraday!
he's dead, he's dead, he's dead!

We are undone, lady, we are undone!

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

Juliet.

Can heaven be so envious?

Nurse.

Romeo can,

Though heaven cannot.
O Romeo, Romeo!

Who ever would have thought it?
Romeo!

Juliet.

What devil art thou
that dost torment me thus?

This torture
should be roar'd in dismal hell.

Hath Romeo slain himself?
Say thou but 'I,'

And that bare vowel 'I'
shall poison more

Than the death-darting eye
of cockatrice.

I am not I,
if there be such an 'I';

Or those eyes shut
that make thee answer 'I.'

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

Brief sounds determine
of my weal or woe.

Nurse.

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

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

A piteous corse,
a bloody piteous corse;

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

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

Juliet.

O, break, my heart!
poor bankrout, break at once!

To prison, eyes;
ne'er look on liberty!

Vile earth, to earth resign;
end motion here,

And thou and Romeo
press one heavy bier!

Nurse.

O Tybalt, Tybalt,
the best friend I had!

O courteous Tybalt!
honest gentleman

That ever I should live
to see thee dead!

Juliet.

What storm is this
that blows so contrary?

Is Romeo slaught'red,
and is Tybalt dead?

My dear-lov'd cousin,
and my dearer lord?

Then, dreadful trumpet,
sound the general doom!

For who is living,
if those two are gone?

Nurse.

Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished;

Romeo that kill'd him,
he is banished.

Juliet.

O God!
Did Romeo's hand
shed Tybalt's blood?

Nurse.

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

Juliet.

O serpent heart,
hid with a flow'ring face!

Did ever dragon
keep so fair a cave?

Beautiful tyrant!
Fiend angelical!

Dove-feather'd raven!
Wolvish-ravening lamb!

Despised substance
of divinest show!

Just opposite
to what thou justly seem'st—

A damned saint,
an honourable villain!

O nature,
what hadst thou to do in hell

When thou didst bower
the spirit of a fiend

In mortal paradise
of such sweet flesh?

Was ever book
containing such vile matter

So fairly bound?
O, that deceit should dwell

In such a gorgeous palace!

Nurse.

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!

Juliet.

Blister'd be thy tongue

For such a wish!
He was not born to shame.

Upon his brow
shame is asham'd to sit;

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

Sole monarch
of the universal earth.

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

Nurse.

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

Juliet.

Shall I speak ill
of him that is my husband?

Ah, poor my lord,
what tongue shall smooth thy name

When I, thy three-hours wife,
have mangled it?

But wherefore, villain,
didst thou kill my cousin?

That villain cousin
would have kill'd my husband.

Back, foolish tears,
back to your native spring!

Your tributary drops belong to woe,

Which you, mistaking,
offer up to joy.

My husband lives,
that Tybalt would have slain;

And Tybalt's dead,
that would have slain my husband.

All this is comfort;
wherefore weep I then?

Some word there was,
worser than Tybalt's death,

That murd'red me.
I would forget it fain;

But O, it presses to my memory

Like damned guilty deeds
to sinners' minds!

'Tybalt is dead,
and Romeo banished.

'That 'banished,'
that one word 'banished,'

Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts.
Tybalt's death

Was woe enough,
if it had ended there;

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' –
to speak that word

Is father, mother,
Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,

All slain, all dead.
'Romeo is banished'–

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

In that word's death;
no words can that woe sound.

Where is my father and my mother,
nurse?

Nurse.

Weeping and wailing
over Tybalt's corse.

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

Juliet.

Wash they his wounds with tears?
Mine shall be spent,

When theirs are dry,
for Romeo's banishment.

Take up those cords.
Poor ropes, you are beguil'd,

Both you and I,
for Romeo is exil'd.

He made you for a highway
to my bed;

But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.

Come, cords; come, nurse.
I'll to my wedding bed;

And death, not Romeo,
take my maidenhead!

Nurse.

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.

Juliet.

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

And bid him come
to take his last farewell.

Exeunt.

Scene III. Friar Laurence's cell.

Enter Friar [Laurence].

Friar.

Romeo, come forth;
come forth, thou fearful man.

Affliction is enanmour'd
of thy parts,

And thou art wedded
to calamity.

Enter Romeo.

Romeo.

Father, what news?
What is the Prince's doom?

What sorrow craves acquaintance
at my hand

That I yet know not?

Friar.

Too familiar

Is my dear son
with such sour company.

I bring thee tidings
of the Prince's doom.

Romeo.

What less than doomsday
is the Prince's doom?

Friar.

A gentler judgment
vanish'd from his lips,

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

Romeo.

Ha, banishment?
Be merciful, say 'death';

For exile hath more terror
in his look,

Much more than death.
Do not say 'banishment.'

Friar.

Hence from Verona
art thou banished.

Be patient,
for the world is broad and wide.

Romeo.

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 'banishment'

Is death misterm'd.
Calling death 'banishment,'

Thou cut'st my head off
with a golden axe

And smilest
upon the stroke that murders me.

Friar.

O deadly sin!
O rude unthankfulness!

Thy fault our law calls death;
but the kind Prince,

Taking thy part,
hath rush'd aside the law,

And turn'd that black word death
to banishment.

This is dear mercy,
and thou seest it not.

Romeo.

'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,

Who,
even in pure and vestal modesty,

Still blush,
as thinking their own kisses sin;

But Romeo may not—
he is banished.

This may flies do,
when I from this must fly;

They are free men,
but I am banished.

And sayest thou yet
that exile is not death?

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

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

But 'banished' to kill me?—
'banished'?

O friar,
the damned use that word in hell;

Howling attends it!
How hast thou the heart,

Being a divine,
a ghostly confessor,

A sin-absolver,
and my friend profess'd,

To mangle me
with that word 'banished'?

Friar.

Thou fond mad man,
hear me a little speak.

Romeo.

O, thou wilt speak again
of banishment.

Friar.

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

Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy,

To comfort thee,
though thou art banished.

Romeo.

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.

Friar.

O, then I see
that madmen have no ears.

Romeo.

How should they,
when that wise men have no eyes?

Friar.

Let me dispute with thee
of thy estate.

Romeo.

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,
then mightst thou tear thy hair,

And fall upon the ground,
as I do now,

Taking the measure
of an unmade grave.

Knock [within].

Friar.

Arise; one knocks.
Good Romeo, hide thyself.

Romeo.

Not I; unless
the breath of heartsick groans,

Mist-like infold me
from the search of eyes.

Knock.

Friar.

Hark, how they knock!
Who's there?
Romeo, arise;

Thou wilt be taken.—

Stay awhile!—Stand up;

Knock.

Run to my study.—
By-and-by!—God's will,

What simpleness is this.—
I come, I come!

Knock.

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

Nurse. [within]

Let me come in,
and you shall know my errand.

I come from Lady Juliet.

Friar.

Welcome then.

Enter Nurse.

Nurse.

O holy friar,
O, tell me, holy friar

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

Friar.

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

Nurse.

O, he is even in my mistress' case,

Just in her case!

Friar.

O woeful sympathy!

Piteous predicament!

Nurse.

Even so lies she,
Blubb'ring and weeping,
weeping and blubbering.

Stand up, stand up!
Stand, an you be a man.

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

Why should you fall
into so deep an O?

Romeo. (rises)

Nurse—

Nurse.

Ah sir! Ah sir!
Well, death's the end of all.

Romeo.

Spakest thou of Juliet?
How is it with her?

Doth not she think me
an old murtherer,

Now I have stain'd
the childhood of our joy

With blood remov'd but little
from her own?

Where is she? And how doth she!
And what says

My conceal'd lady
to our cancell'd love?

Nurse.

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.

Romeo.

As if that name,
Shot from the deadly level
of a gun,

Did murther her;
as that name's cursed hand

Murder'd 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.

[Draws his dagger.]

Friar.

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!

Or 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 thyself?

And slay thy lady
that in thy life lives,

By doing damned hate upon thyself?

Why railest thou on thy birth,
the heaven, and earth?

Since birth and heaven and earth,
all three do meet

In thee at once;
which thou at once wouldst lose.

Fie, fie,
thou shamest thy shape,
thy love, thy wit,

Which, like a usurer,
abound'st in all,

And usest none
in that true use indeed

Which should bedeck thy shape,
thy love, thy wit.

Thy noble shape
is but a form of wax

Digressing from
the valour of a man;

Thy dear love sworn
but hollow perjury,

Killing that love
which thou hast vow'd to cherish;

Thy wit,
that ornament to shape and love,

Misshapen
in the conduct of them both,

Like powder
in a skilless soldier's flask,

Is get afire
by thine own ignorance,

And thou dismemb'red
with thine own defence.

What, rouse thee, man!
Thy Juliet is alive,

For whose dear sake
thou wast but lately dead.

There art thou happy.
Tybalt would kill thee,

But thou slewest Tybalt.
There art thou happy too.

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

And turns it to exile.
There art thou happy.

A pack of blessings
light upon thy back;

Happiness courts thee
in her best array;

But,
like a misbhav'd and sullen wench,

Thou pout'st upon thy fortune
and thy love.

Take heed, take heed,
for such die miserable.

Go get thee to thy love,
as was decreed,

Ascend her chamber,
hence and comfort her.

But look thou stay not
till the watch be set,

For then
thou canst not pass to Mantua,

Where thou shalt live
till we can find a time

To blaze your marriage,
reconcile your friends,

Beg pardon of the Prince,
and call thee back

With twenty hundred thousand times
more joy

Than thou went'st forth
in lamentation.

Go before, nurse.
Commend me to thy lady,

And bid her
hasten all the house to bed,

Which heavy sorrow
makes them apt unto.

Romeo is coming.

Nurse.

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

To hear good counsel.
O, what learning is!

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

Romeo.

Do so,
and bid my sweet prepare to chide.

Nurse.

Here is a ring
she bid me give you, sir.

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

Exit.

Romeo.

How well my comfort is reviv'd
by this!

Friar.

Go hence; good night;
and here stands all your state:

Either be gone
before the watch be set,

Or by the break of day
disguis'd from hence.

Sojourn in Mantua.
I'll find out your man,

And he shall signify
from time to time

Every good hap
to you that chances here.

Give me thy hand.
'Tis late.
Farewell; good night.

Romeo.

But that a joy past joy
calls out on me,

It were a grief so brief
to part with thee.

Farewell.

Exeunt.

Scene IV. Capulet's house

Enter Old Capulet, his Wife,
and County Paris.

Capulet.

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 to-night.

I promise you,
but for your company,

I would have been abed an hour ago.

County Paris.

These times of woe
afford no tune to woo.

Madam, good night.
Commend me to your daughter.

Lady Capulet.

I will,
and know her mind early to-morrow;

To-night she's mew'd up
to her heaviness.

Capulet.

Sir County 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 County Paris' love

And bid her (mark you me?)
on Wednesday next–

But, soft! what day is this?

County Paris.

Monday, my lord.

Capulet.

Monday! Ha, ha!
Well, Wednesday is too soon.

Thursday let it be–
a Thursday, tell her

She shall be married
to this noble earl.

Will you be ready?
Do you like this haste?

We'll keep no great ado—
a friend or two;

For hark you,
Tybalt being slain so late,

It may be thought
we held him carelessly,

Being our kinsman,
if we revel much.

Therefore we'll have
some half a dozen friends,

And there an end.
But what say you to Thursday?

County Paris.

My lord, I would
that Thursday were to-morrow.

Capulet.

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 very very late

That we may call it early
by-and-by.

Good night.

Exeunt

Scene V. Capulet's orchard.

Enter Romeo and Juliet aloft,
at the Window.

Juliet.

Wilt thou be gone?
It is not yet near day.

It was the nightingale,
and not the lark,

That pierc'd
the fearful hollow of thine ear.

Nightly she sings
on yond pomegranate tree.

Believe me, love,
it was the nightingale.

Romeo.

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.

Juliet.

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

It is some meteor
that the sun exhales

To be to thee this night
a torchbearer

And light thee
on the way to Mantua.

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

Romeo.

Let me be ta'en,
let me be put to death.

I am content,
so thou wilt have it so.

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

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

Nor that is not the lark
whose notes do beat

The vaulty heaven
so high above our heads.

I have more care to stay
than will to go.

Come, death, and welcome!
Juliet wills it so.

How is't, my soul?
Let's talk; it is not day.

Juliet.

It is, it is!
Hie hence, be gone, away!

It is the lark that sings
so out of tune,

Straining harsh discords
and unpleasing sharps.

Some say
the lark makes sweet division;

This doth not so,
for she divideth us.

Some say
the lark and loathed toad
chang'd eyes;

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

Since arm from arm
that voice doth us affray,

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

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

Romeo.

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

Enter Nurse.

Nurse.

Madam!

Juliet.

Nurse?

Nurse.

Your lady mother is coming
to your chamber.

The day is broke;
be wary, look about.

Juliet.

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

[Exit.]

Romeo.

Farewell, farewell!
One kiss, and I'll descend.

He goeth down.

Juliet.

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!

Romeo.

Farewell!

I will omit no opportunity

That may convey my greetings, love,
to thee.

Juliet.

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

Romeo.

I doubt it not;
and all these woes shall serve

For sweet discourses
in our time to come.

Juliet.

O God, I have an ill-divining soul!

Methinks I see thee,
now thou art below,

As one dead
in the bottom of a tomb.

Either my eyesight fails,
or thou look'st pale.

Romeo.

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

Dry sorrow drinks our blood.
Adieu, adieu!

Exit.

Juliet.

O Fortune, Fortune!
All men call thee fickle.

If thou art fickle,
what dost thou with him

That is renown'd for faith?
Be fickle, Fortune,

For then
I hope thou wilt not keep him long

But send him back.

Lady Capulet. [within]

Ho, daughter! Are you up?

Juliet.

Who is't that calls?
It is my lady mother.

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

What unaccustom'd cause
procures her hither?

Enter Mother.

Lady Capulet.

Why, how now, Juliet?

Juliet.

Madam, I am not well.

Lady Capulet.

Evermore weeping
for your cousin's death?

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

An if thou couldst,
thou couldst not make him live.

Therefore have done.
Some grief shows much of love;

But much of grief shows
still some want of wit.

Juliet.

Yet let me weep
for such a feeling loss.

Lady Capulet.

So shall you feel the loss,
but not the friend

Which you weep for.

Juliet.

Feeling so the loss,
I cannot choose
but ever weep the friend.

Lady Capulet.

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

As that the villain lives
which slaughter'd him.

Juliet.

What villain, madam?

Lady Capulet.

That same villain Romeo.

Juliet. [aside]

Villain and he
be many miles asunder.—

God pardon him!
I do, with all my heart;

And yet no man like he
doth grieve my heart.

Lady Capulet.

That is because
the traitor murderer lives.

Juliet.

Ay, madam,
from the reach of these my hands.

Would none but I
might venge my cousin's death!

Lady Capulet.

We will have vengeance for it,
fear thou not.

Then weep no more.
I'll send to one in Mantua,

Where that same banish'd runagate
doth live,

Shall give him
such an unaccustom'd dram

That he shall soon
keep Tybalt company;

And then I hope
thou wilt be satisfied.

Juliet.

Indeed I never shall be satisfied

With Romeo till I behold him—dead—

Is my poor heart
so for a kinsman vex'd.

Madam,
if you could find out but a man

To bear a poison,
I would temper it;

That Romeo should,
upon receipt thereof,

Soon sleep in quiet.
O, how my heart abhors

To hear him nam'd
and cannot come to him,

To wreak the love
I bore my cousin Tybalt

Upon his body
that hath slaughter'd him!

Lady Capulet.

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

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

Juliet.

And joy comes well
in such a needy time.

What are they,
I beseech your ladyship?

Lady Capulet.

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

One who,
to put thee from thy heaviness,

Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy

That thou expects not
nor I look'd not for.

Juliet.

Madam, in happy time!
What day is that?

Lady Capulet.

Marry, my child,
early next Thursday morn

The gallant, young,
and noble gentleman,

The County Paris,
at Saint Peter's Church,

Shall happily make thee there
a joyful bride.

Juliet.

Now by Saint Peter's Church,
and Peter too,

He shall not make me there
a joyful bride!

I wonder at this haste,
that I must wed

Ere he that should be husband
comes to woo.

I pray you tell my lord and father,
madam,

I will not marry yet;
and when I do, I swear

It shall be Romeo,
whom you know I hate,

Rather than County Paris.
These are news indeed!

Lady Capulet.

Here comes your father.
Tell him so yourself,

And see how he will take it
at your hands.

Enter Capulet and Nurse.

Capulet.

When the sun sets
the air doth drizzle dew,

But for the sunset
of my brother's son

It rains downright.

How now? A conduit, girl?
What, still in tears?

Evermore show'ring?
In one little body

Thou counterfeit'st a bark,
a sea, a wind:

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

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

Sailing in this salt flood;
the winds, thy sighs,

Who, raging with thy tears
and they with them,

Without a sudden calm will overset

Thy tempest-tossed body.
How now, wife?

Have you delivered
to her our decree?

Lady Capulet.

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

I would the fool
were married to her grave!

Capulet.

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?

Juliet.

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.

Capulet.

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

'Proud'—and 'I thank you'—
and 'I thank you not'—

And yet 'not proud'?
Mistress minion you,

Thank me no thankings,
nor proud me no prouds,

But fettle your fine joints
'gainst Thursday next

To go with County Paris
to Saint Peter's Church,

Or I will drag thee
on a hurdle thither.

Out, you green-sickness carrion!
Out, you baggage!

You tallow-face!

Lady Capulet.

Fie, fie!
What, are you mad?

Juliet.

Good father,
I beseech you on my knees,

Hear me with patience
but to speak a word.

Capulet.

Hang thee, young baggage!
disobedient wretch!

I tell thee what—
get thee to church a Thursday

Or never after look me in the face.

Speak not, reply not,
do not answer me!

My fingers itch.
Wife, we scarce thought us blest

That God had lent us
but this only child;

But now I see
this one is one too much,

And that we have a curse
in having her.

Out on her, hilding!

Nurse.

God in heaven bless her!

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

Capulet.

And why, my Lady Wisdom?
Hold your tongue,

Good Prudence.
Smatter with your gossips, go!

Nurse.

I speak no treason.

Capulet.

O, God-i-god-en!

Nurse.

May not one speak?

Capulet.

Peace, you mumbling fool!

Utter your gravity
o'er a gossip's bowl,

For here we need it not.

Lady Capulet.

You are too hot.

Capulet.

God's bread! It makes me mad.
Day, night, late, early,

At home, abroad, alone, in company,

Waking or sleeping,
still my care hath been

To have her match'd;
and having now provided

A gentleman of princely parentage,

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

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

Proportion'd
as one's thought would wish a man—

And then
to have a wretched puling fool,

A whining mammet,
in her fortune's tender,

To answer 'I'll not wed,
I cannot love;

I am too young,
I pray you pardon me'!

But, an you will not wed,
I'll pardon you.

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

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

Thursday is near;
lay hand on heart, advise:

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

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

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

Nor what is mine
shall never do thee good.

Trust to't. Bethink you.
I'll not be forsworn.

Exit.

Juliet.

Is there no pity
sitting in the clouds

That sees
into the bottom of my grief?

O sweet my mother,
cast me not away!

Delay this marriage
for a month, a week;

Or if you do not,
make the bridal bed

In that dim monument
where Tybalt lies.

Lady Capulet.

Talk not to me,
for I'll not speak a word.

Do as thou wilt,
for I have done with thee.

Exit.

Juliet.

O God!—O nurse,
how shall this be prevented?

My husband is on earth,
my faith in heaven.

How shall that faith return again
to earth

Unless that husband
send it me from heaven

By leaving earth?
Comfort me, counsel me.

Alack, alack, that heaven
should practise stratagems

Upon so soft a subject as myself!

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

Some comfort, nurse.

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.

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 County 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.

Juliet.

Speak'st thou this from thy heart?

Nurse.

And from my soul too;
else beshrew them both.

Juliet.

Amen!

Nurse.

What?

Juliet.

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.

Nurse.

Marry, I will;
and this is wisely done.

Exit.

Juliet.

Ancient damnation!
O most wicked fiend!

Is it more sin
to wish me thus forsworn,

Or to dispraise my lord
with that same tongue

Which she hath prais'd him
with above compare

So many thousand times?
Go, counsellor!

Thou and my bosom
henceforth shall be twain.

I'll to the friar
to know his remedy.

If all else fail,
myself have power to die.

Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I. Friar Laurence's cell.

Enter Friar [Laurence]
and County Paris.

Friar.

On Thursday, sir?
The time is very short.

County Paris.

My father Capulet
will have it so,

And I am nothing slow
to slack his haste.

Friar.

You say
you do not know the lady's mind.

Uneven is the course;
I like it not.

County Paris.

Immoderately she weeps
for Tybalt's death,

And therefore
have I little talk'd of love;

For Venus smiles not
in a house of tears.

Now, sir,
her father counts it dangerous

That she do give her sorrow
so much sway,

And in his wisdom
hastes our marriage

To stop the inundation
of her tears,

Which, too much minded
by herself alone,

May be put from her
by society.

Now do you know
the reason of this haste.

Friar. [aside]

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

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

Enter Juliet.

County Paris.

Happily met, my lady and my wife!

Juliet.

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

County Paris.

That may be must be, love,
on Thursday next.

Juliet.

What must be shall be.

Friar.

That's a certain text.

County Paris.

Come you to make confession
to this father?

Juliet.

To answer that,
I should confess to you.

County Paris.

Do not deny to him
that you love me.

Juliet.

I will confess to you
that I love him.

County Paris.

So will ye, I am sure,
that you love me.

Juliet.

If I do so,
it will be of more price,

Being spoke behind your back,
than to your face.

County Paris.

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

Juliet.

The tears have got small victory
by that,

For it was bad enough
before their spite.

County Paris.

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

Juliet.

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

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

County Paris.

Thy face is mine,
and thou hast sland'red it.

Juliet.

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?

Friar.

My leisure serves me,
pensive daughter, now.

My lord,
we must entreat the time alone.

County Paris.

God shield
I should disturb devotion!

Juliet,
on Thursday early will I rouse ye.

Till then, adieu,
and keep this holy kiss.

Exit.

Juliet.

O, shut the door!
and when thou hast done so,

Come weep with me—
past hope, past cure, past help!

Friar.

Ah, Juliet,
I already know thy grief;

It strains me
past the compass of my wits.

I hear thou must,
and nothing may prorogue it,

On Thursday next
be married to this County.

Juliet.

Tell me not, friar,
that thou hear'st of this,

Unless thou tell me
how I may prevent it.

If in thy wisdom
thou canst give no help,

Do thou but call my resolution wise

And with this knife
I'll help it presently.

God join'd my heart and Romeo's,
thou our hands;

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

Shall be the label to another deed,

Or my true heart
with treacherous revolt

Turn to another,
this shall slay them both.

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

Give me some present counsel;
or, behold,

'Twixt my extremes and me
this bloody knife

Shall play the empire,
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.

Friar.

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 scap from it;

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

Juliet.

O, bid me leap,
rather than marry County 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,

O'ercover'd quite
with dead men's rattling bones,

With reeky shanks
and yellow chapless skulls;

Or bid me go into a new-made grave

And hide me with a dead man
in his shroud—

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

And I will do it
without fear or doubt,

To live an unstain'd wife
to my sweet love.

Friar.

Hold, then.
Go home, be merry, give consent

To marry County Paris.
Wednesday is to-morrow.

To-morrow night
look that thou lie alone;

Let not the nurse lie with thee
in thy chamber.

Take thou this vial,
being then in bed,

And this distilled liquor
drink thou off;

When presently
through all thy veins shall run

A cold and drowsy humour;
for no pulse

Shall keep his native progress,
but surcease;

No warmth, no breath,
shall testify thou livest;

The roses in thy lips and cheeks
shall fade

To paly ashes,
thy eyes' windows fall

Like death
when he shuts up the day of life;

Each part,
depriv'd of supple government,

Shall, stiff and stark and cold,
appear like death;

And in this borrowed likeness
of shrunk death

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.

Then,
as the manner of our country is,

In thy best robes
uncovered on the bier

Thou shalt be borne
to that same ancient vault

Where all the kindred
of the Capulets lie.

In the mean time,
against thou shalt awake,

Shall Romeo by my letters
know our drift;

And hither shall he come;
and he and I

Will watch thy waking,
and that very night

Shall Romeo bear thee hence
to Mantua.

And this shall free thee
from this present shame,

If no inconstant toy
nor womanish fear

Abate thy valour in the acting it.

Juliet.

Give me, give me!
O, tell not me of fear!

Friar.

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.

Juliet.

Love give me strength!
and strength shall help afford.

Farewell, dear father.

Exeunt.

Scene II. Capulet's house.

Enter Father Capulet,
Mother, Nurse,
and Servingmen, two or three.

Capulet.

So many guests invite
as here are writ.

[Exit a Servingman.]

Sirrah,
go hire me twenty cunning cooks.

Servant.

You shall have none ill, sir;
for I'll try
if they can lick their fingers.

Capulet.

How canst thou try them so?

Servant.

Marry, sir, 'tis an ill cook
that cannot lick his own fingers.

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

Capulet.

Go, begone.

Exit Servingman.

We shall be much unfurnish'd
for this time.

What, is my daughter gone
to Friar Laurence?

Nurse.

Ay, forsooth.

Capulet.

Well, be may chance
to do some good on her.

A peevish self-will'd harlotry
it is.

Enter Juliet.

Nurse.

See where she comes from shrift
with merry look.

Capulet.

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

Juliet.

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.

Capulet.

Send for the County.
Go tell him of this.

I'll have this knot knit up
to-morrow morning.

Juliet.

I met the youthful lord
at Laurence' cell

And gave him
what becomed love I might,

Not stepping o'er
the bounds of modesty.

Capulet.

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

This is as't should be.
Let me see the County.

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

Now, afore God,
this reverend holy friar,

All our whole city
is much bound to him.

Juliet.

Nurse,
will you go with me into my closet

To help me
sort such needful ornaments

As you think fit
to furnish me to-morrow?

Mother.

No, not till Thursday.
There is time enough.

Capulet.

Go, nurse, go with her.
We'll to church to-morrow.

Exeunt Juliet and Nurse.

Mother.

We shall be short in our provision.

'Tis now near night.

Capulet.

Tush, I will stir about,

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

Go thou to Juliet,
help to deck up her.

I'll not to bed to-night;
let me alone.

I'll play the housewife
for this once.
What, ho!

They are all forth;
well, I will walk myself

To County Paris, to prepare him up

Against to-morrow.
My heart is wondrous light,

Since this same wayward girl
is so reclaim'd.

Exeunt.

Scene III. Juliet's chamber.

Enter Juliet and Nurse.

Juliet.

Ay, those attires are best;
but, gentle nurse,

I pray thee
leave me to myself to-night;

For I have need of many orisons

To move the heavens
to smile upon my state,

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

Enter Mother.

Mother.

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

Juliet.

No, madam;
we have cull'd such necessaries

As are behooffull
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.

Mother.

Good night.

Get thee to bed, and rest;
for thou hast need.

Exeunt [Mother and Nurse].

Juliet.

Farewell!
God knows when we shall meet again.

I have a faint cold fear
thrills through my veins

That almost freezes up
the heat of life.

I'll call them back again
to comfort me.

Nurse!—What should she do here?

My dismal scene
I needs must act alone.

Come, vial.

What if this mixture
do not work at all?

Shall I be married then
to-morrow morning?

No, No! This shall forbid it.
Lie thou there.

Lays down a dagger.

What if it be a poison
which the friar

Subtilly hath minist'red
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.

I will not entertain
so bad a thought.

How if,
when I am laid into the tomb,

I wake before the time that Romeo

Come to redeem me?
There's a fearful point!

Shall I not then
be stifled in the vault,

To whose foul mouth
no healthsome air breathes in,

And there die strangled
ere my Romeo comes?

Or, if I live, is it not very like

The horrible conceit
of death and night,

Together with the terror
of the place—

As in a vault,
an ancient receptacle

Where for this many hundred years
the bones

Of all my buried ancestors
are pack'd;

Where bloody Tybalt,
yet but green in earth,

Lies fest'ring in his shroud;
where, as they say,

At some hours in the night
spirits resort—

Alack, alack,
is it not like that I,

So early waking—
what with loathsome smells,

And shrieks like mandrakes
torn out of the earth,

That living mortals, hearing them,
run mad—

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

Environed
with all these hideous fears,

And madly play
with my forefathers' joints,

And pluck the mangled Tybalt
from his shroud,

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

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

O, look!
methinks I see my cousin's ghost

Seeking out Romeo,
that did spit his body

Upon a rapier's point.
Stay, Tybalt, stay!

Romeo, I come!
This do I drink to thee.

She [drinks and] falls upon her bed
within the curtains.

Scene IV. Capulet's house.

Enter Lady of the House and Nurse.

Lady Capulet.

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

Nurse.

They call for dates and quinces
in the pastry.

Enter Old Capulet.

Capulet.

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

The curfew bell hath rung,
'tis three o'clock.

Look to the bak'd meats,
good Angelica;

Spare not for cost.

Nurse.

Go, you cot-quean, go,

Get you to bed!
Faith, you'll be sick to-morrow

For this night's watching.

Capulet.

No, not a whit.
What, I have watch'd ere now

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

Lady Capulet.

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

But I will watch you
from such watching now.

Exeunt Lady and Nurse.

Capulet.

A jealous hood, a jealous hood!

Enter three or four Fellows,
with spits and logs and baskets.

What is there, now, fellow?

Fellow.

Things for the cook, sir;
but I know not what.

Capulet.

Make haste, make haste.

[Exit Fellow.]

Sirrah, fetch drier logs.

Call Peter;
he will show thee where they are.

Fellow.

I have a head, sir,
that will find out logs

And never trouble Peter
for the matter.

Capulet.

Mass, and well said;
a merry whoreson, ha!

Thou shalt be loggerhead.

[Exit Fellow.]

Good faith, 'tis day.

The County will be here
with music straight,

For so he said he would.

Play music.

I hear him near.

Nurse!
Wife!
What, ho!
What, nurse, I say!

Enter Nurse.

Go waken Juliet;
go and trim her up.

I'll go and chat with County Paris.
Hie, make haste,

Make haste!
The bridegroom he is come already:

Make haste, I say.

[Exeunt.]

Scene V. Juliet's chamber.

[Enter Nurse.]

Nurse.

Mistress! What, mistress! Juliet!
Fast, I warrant her, she.

Why, lamb! Why, lady!
Fie, you slug-abed!

Why, love, I say!
Madam! Sweetheart! Why, bride!

What, not a word?
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?

[Draws aside the curtains.]

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 weraday that ever I was born!

Some aqua-vitae, ho!
My lord! My lady!

Enter Mother.

Mother.

What noise is here?

Nurse.

O lamentable day!

Mother.

What is the matter?

Nurse.

Look, look! O heavy day!

Mother.

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

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

Help, help! Call help.

Enter Father.

Father.

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

Nurse.

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

Mother.

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

Capulet.

Ha! let me see her.
Out alas! She's cold,

Her blood is settled,
and her joints are stiff;

Life and these lips
have long been separated.

Death lies on her
like an untimely frost

Upon the sweetest flower
of all the field.

Nurse.

O lamentable day!

Mother.

O woful time!

Capulet.

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

Ties up my tongue
and will not let me speak.

Enter Friar [Laurence]
and the County [County Paris],
with Musicians.

Friar.

Come,
is the bride ready to go to church?

Capulet.

Ready to go, but never to return.

O son,
the night before thy wedding day

Hath Death lain with thy wife.
See, there she lies,

Flower as she was,
deflowered by him.

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

My daughter he hath wedded.
I will die

And leave him all.
Life, living, all is Death's.

County Paris.

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

And doth it give me
such a sight as this?

Mother.

Accurs'd, unhappy, wretched,
hateful day!

Most miserable hour
that e'er 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!

Nurse.

O woe? O woful, woful, woful day!

Most lamentable day, most woful 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 woful day! O woful day!

County Paris.

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.

Capulet.

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

Uncomfortable time,
why cam'st thou now

To murther, murther our solemnity?

O child! O child!
My soul, and not my child!

Dead art thou, dead!
Alack, my child is dead,

And with my child
my joys are buried!

Friar.

Peace, ho, for shame!
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.

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?

O, in this love,
you love your child so ill

That you run mad,
seeing that she is well.

She's not well married
that lives married long,

But she's best married
that dies married young.

Dry up your tears
and stick your rosemary

On this fair corse,
and, as the custom is,

In all her best array
bear her to church;

For though fond nature
bids us all lament,

Yet nature's tears
are reason's merriment.

Capulet.

All things that we ordained
festival

Turn from their office
to black funeral–

Our instruments
to melancholy bells,

Our wedding cheer
to a sad burial feast;

Our solemn hymns
to sullen dirges change;

Our bridal flowers
serve for a buried corse;

And all things change them
to the contrary.

Friar.

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

And go, Sir County Paris.
Every one prepare

To follow this fair corse
unto her grave.

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

Move them no more
by crossing their high will.

Exeunt.
Manent Musicians [and Nurse].

1. Musician.

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

Nurse.

Honest good fellows,
ah, put up, put up!

For well you know
this is a pitiful case.

[Exit.]

1. Musician.

Ay, by my troth,
the case may be amended.

Enter Peter.

Peter.

Musicians, O, Musicians,
'Heart's ease,' 'Heart's ease'!
O, an you will have me live,
play 'Heart's ease.'

1. Musician.
Why 'Heart's ease''?

Peter.

O, Musicians,
because my heart itself plays
'My heart is full of woe.'
O, play me some merry dump
to comfort me.

1. Musician.

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

Peter.

You will not then?

1. Musician.

No.

Peter.

I will then give it you soundly.

1. Musician.

What will you give us?

Peter.

No money, on my faith,
but the gleek.
I will give you the minstrel.

1. Musician.

Then will I give you
the serving-creature.

Peter.

Then will I lay
the serving-creature's dagger
on your pate.
I will carry no crotchets.
I'll re you, I'll fa you.
Do you note me?

1. Musician.

An you re us and fa us,
you note us.

2. Musician.

Pray you put up your dagger,
and put out your wit.

Peter.

Then have at you with my wit!
I will dry-beat you
with an iron wit,
and put up my iron dagger.
Answer me like men.

'When griping grief
the heart doth wound,

And doleful dumps the mind oppress,

Then music with her silver sound'–

Why 'silver sound'?
Why 'Music with her silver sound'?

What say you, Simon Catling?

1. Musician.

Marry, sir,
because silver hath a sweet sound.

Peter.

Pretty! What say You, Hugh Rebeck?

2. Musician.

I say 'silver sound'
because musicians sound for silver.

Peter.

Pretty too!
What say you, James Soundpost?

3. Musician.

Faith, I know not what to say.

Peter.

O, I cry you mercy!
You are the singer.
I will say for you.
It is 'Music with her silver sound'
because musicians
have no gold for sounding.

'Then Music with her silver sound

With speedy help
doth lend redress.'

[Exit.]

1. Musician.

What a pestilent knave
is this same?

2. Musician.

Hang him, Jack!
Come, we'll in here,
tarry for the mourners,
and stay dinner.

Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I. Mantua. A street.

Enter Romeo.

Romeo.

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 possess'd,

When but love's shadows
are so rich in joy!

Enter Romeo's Man Balthasar,
booted.

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.

Man.

Then she is well,
and nothing can be ill.

Her body sleeps
in Capel's monument,

And her immortal part
with angels lives.

I saw her laid low
in her kindred's vault

And presently took post
to tell it you.

O, pardon me
for bringing these ill news,

Since you did leave it
for my office, sir.

Romeo.

Is it e'en so?
Then I defy you, stars!

Thou knowest my lodging.
Get me ink and paper

And hire posthorses.
I will hence to-night.

Man.

I do beseech you, sir,
have patience.

Your looks are pale and wild
and do import

Some misadventure.

Romeo.

Tush, thou art deceiv'd.

Leave me
and do the thing I bid thee do.

Hast thou no letters to me
from the friar?

Man.

No, my good lord.

Romeo.

No matter. Get thee gone

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

[Exit Balthasar.]

Well, Juliet,
I will lie with thee to-night.

Let's see for means.
O mischief, thou art swift

To enter in the thoughts
of desperate men!

I do remember an apothecary,

And hereabouts 'a dwells,
which late I noted

In tatt'red 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 alligator stuff'd,
and other skins

Of ill-shaped 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 myself 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 holiday,
the beggar's shop is shut.
What, ho! Apothecary!

Enter Apothecary.

Apothecary.

Who calls so loud?

Romeo.

Come hither, man.
I see that thou art poor.

Hold, there is forty ducats.
Let me have

A dram of poison,
such soon-speeding gear

As will disperse itself
through all the veins

That the life-weary taker
may fall dead,

And that the trunk
may be discharg'd of breath

As violently as hasty powder fir'd

Doth hurry
from the fatal cannon's womb.

Apothecary.

Such mortal drugs I have;
but Mantua's law

Is death to any he
that utters them.

Romeo.

Art thou so bare
and full of wretchedness

And fearest to die?
Famine is in thy cheeks,

Need and oppression
starveth in thine eyes,

Contempt and beggary
hangs upon thy back:

The world is not thy friend,
nor the world's law;

The world affords no law
to make thee rich;

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

Apothecary.

My poverty but not my will
consents.

Romeo.

I pay thy poverty and not thy will.

Apothecary.

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.

Romeo.

There is thy gold–
worse poison to men's souls,

Doing more murther
in this loathsome world,

Than these poor compounds
that thou mayst not sell.

I sell thee poison;
thou hast sold me none.

Farewell.
Buy food and get thyself in flesh.

Come, cordial and not poison,
go with me

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

Exeunt.

Scene II. Verona.
Friar Laurence's cell.

Enter Friar John to Friar Laurence.

John.

Holy Franciscan friar, brother, ho!

Enter Friar Laurence.

Laurence.

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.

John.

Going to find
a barefoot brother out,

One of our order, to associate me

Here in this city
visiting the sick,

And finding him,
the searchers of the town,

Suspecting
that we 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 stay'd.

Laurence.

Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo?

John.

I could not send it–
here it is again–

Nor get a messenger
to bring it thee,

So fearful were they of infection.

Laurence.

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.

John.

Brother,
I'll go and bring it thee.

Exit.

Laurence.
Now, must I to the monument alone.

Within this three hours
will fair Juliet wake.

She will beshrew me much
that Romeo

Hath had no notice
of these accidents;

But I will write again to Mantua,

And keep her at my cell
till Romeo come–

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

Exit.

Scene III. Verona. A churchyard;
in it the monument of the Capulets.

Enter County Paris and his Page
[with flowers and a torch].

County Paris.

Give me thy torch, boy.
Hence, and stand aloof.

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

Under yond yew tree
lay thee all along,

Holding thine ear
close to the hollow ground.

So shall no foot
upon the churchyard tread

(Being loose, unfirm,
with digging up of graves)

But thou shalt hear it.
Whistle then to me,

As signal that thou hear'st
something approach.

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

Page. [aside]

I am almost afraid to stand alone

Here in the churchyard;
yet I will adventure.

[Retires.]

County Paris.

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.

Whistle Boy.

The boy gives warning
something doth approach.

What cursed foot wanders this way
to-night

To cross my obsequies
and true love's rite?

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

[Retires.]

Enter Romeo, and Balthasar
with a torch, a mattock,
and a crow of iron.

Romeo.

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 hearest 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 thence
from her dead finger

A precious ring–
a ring that I must use

In dear employment.
Therefore hence, be gone.

But if thou, jealous,
dost return to pry

In what I farther
shall intend to do,

By heaven,
I will tear thee joint by joint

And strew this hungry churchyard
with thy limbs.

The time and my intents
are savage-wild,

More fierce and more inexorable far

Than empty tigers
or the roaring sea.

Balthasar.

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

Romeo.

So shalt thou show me friendship.
Take thou that.

Live, and be prosperous;
and farewell, good fellow.

Balthasar. [aside]

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

His looks I fear,
and his intents I doubt.

[Retires.]

Romeo.

Thou detestable maw,
thou womb of death,

Gorg'd with the dearest morsel
of the earth,

Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws
to open,

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

Romeo opens the tomb.

County Paris.

This is
that banish'd haughty Montague

That murd'red my love's cousin–
with which grief

It is supposed
the fair creature died–

And 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 pursu'd
further than death?

Condemned villain,
I do apprehend thee.

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

Romeo.

I must indeed;
and therefore came I hither.

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

Fly hence and leave me.
Think upon these gone;

Let them affright thee.
I beseech thee, youth,

But not another sin upon my head

By urging me to fury.
O, be gone!

By heaven,
I love thee better than myself,

For I come hither
arm'd against myself.

Stay not, be gone.
Live, and hereafter say

A madman's mercy bid thee run away.

County Paris.

I do defy thy, conjuration

And apprehend thee
for a felon here.

Romeo.

Wilt thou provoke me?
Then have at thee, boy!

They fight.

Page.

O Lord, they fight!
I will go call the watch.

[Exit. County Paris falls.]

County Paris.

O, I am slain!
If thou be merciful,
Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet.

[Dies.]

Romeo.

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

Mercutio's kinsman,
noble County Paris!

What said my man
when my betossed soul

Did not attend him as we rode?
I think

He told me County 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.

A grave? O, no,
a lanthorn, slaught'red youth,

For here lies Juliet,
and her beauty makes

This vault a feasting presence
full of light.

Death, lie thou there,
by a dead man interr'd.

[Lays him in the tomb.]

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

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, unsavoury guide!

Thou desperate pilot,
now at once run on

The dashing rocks
thy seasick weary bark!

Here's to my love!

[Drinks.]

O true apothecary!

Thy drugs are quick.
Thus with a kiss I die.

Falls.

Enter Friar [Laurence],
with lanthorn, crow, and spade.

Friar.

Saint Francis be my speed!
How oft to-night

Have my old feet stumbled
at graves!
Who's there?

Balthasar.

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

Friar.

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 capels' monument.

Balthasar.

It doth so, holy sir;
and there's my master,

One that you love.

Friar.

Who is it?

Balthasar.

Romeo.

Friar.

How long hath he been there?

Balthasar.

Full half an hour.

Friar.

Go with me to the vault.

Balthasar.

I dare not, sir.

My master knows not
but I am gone hence,

And fearfully
did menace me with death

If I did stay
to look on his intents.

Friar.

Stay then; I'll go alone.
Fear comes upon me.

O, much I fear
some ill unthrifty thing.

Balthasar.

As I did sleep
under this yew tree here,

I dreamt
my master and another fought,

And that my master slew him.

Friar.

Romeo!

Alack, alack,
what blood is this which stains

The stony entrance
of this sepulchre?

What mean
these masterless and gory swords

To lie discolour'd
by this place of peace?

[Enters the tomb.]

Romeo!
O, pale! Who else?
What, County Paris too?

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

Is guilty
of this lamentable chance!
The lady stirs.

Juliet rises.

Juliet.

O comfortable friar!
Where is my lord?

I do remember well
where I should be,

And there I am.
Where is my Romeo?

Friar.

I hear some noise.
Lady, come from that nest

Of death, contagion,
and unnatural sleep.

A greater power
than we can contradict

Hath thwarted our intents.
Come, come away.

Thy husband in thy bosom
there lies dead;

And County Paris too.
Come, I'll dispose of thee

Among a sisterhood of holy nuns.

Stay not to question,
for the watch is coming.

Come, go, good Juliet.
I dare no longer stay.

Juliet.

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

[Exit Friar.]

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

Poison, I see,
hath been his timeless end.

O churl! Drunk all,
and left no friendly drop

To help me after?
I will kiss thy lips.

Haply some poison
yet doth hang on them

To make me die with a restorative.

[Kisses him.]

Thy lips are warm!

Chief Watch. [within]

Lead, boy. Which way?

Juliet

Yea, noise? Then I'll be brief.

O happy dagger!

[Snatches Romeo's dagger.]

This is thy sheath; there rest,
and let me die.

She stabs herself and falls
[on Romeo's body].

Enter [County Paris'] Boy
and Watch.

Boy.

This is the place.

There, where the torch doth burn.

Chief Watch.

'The ground is bloody.
Search about the churchyard.

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

[Exeunt some of the Watch.]

Pitiful sight!
here lies the County slain;

And Juliet bleeding,
warm, and newly dead,

Who here hath lain
this two days buried.

Go, tell the Prince;
run to the Capulets;

Raise up the Montagues;
some others search.

[Exeunt others of the Watch.]

We see the ground
whereon these woes do lie,

But the true ground
of all these piteous woes

We cannot
without circumstance descry.

Enter [some of the Watch,]
with Romeo's Man [Balthasar].

2. Watch.

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

Chief Watch.

Hold him in safety
till the Prince come hither.

Enter Friar [Laurence]
and another Watchman.

3. Watch.

Here is a friar that trembles,
sighs, and weeps.

We took this mattock and this spade
from him

As he was coming
from this churchyard side.

Chief Watch.

A great suspicion!
Stay the friar too.

Enter the Prince [and Attendants].

Prince.

What misadventure is so early up,

That calls our person
from our morning rest?

Enter Capulet and his Wife
[with others].

Capulet.

What should it be,
that they so shriek abroad?

Lady Capulet.

The people in the street cry
'Romeo,'

Some 'Juliet,'
and some 'County Paris';
and all run,

With open outcry,
toward our monument.

Prince.

What fear is this
which startles in our ears?

Chief Watch.

Sovereign,
here lies the County Paris slain;

And Romeo dead;
and Juliet, dead before,

Warm and new kill'd.

Prince.

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

Chief Watch.

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

With instruments upon them
fit to open

These dead men's tombs.

Capulet.

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 it missheathed
in my daughter's bosom!

Lady Capulet.

O me!
This sight of death is as a bell

That warns my old age
to a sepulchre.

Enter Montague [and others].

Prince.

Come, Montague;
for thou art early up

To see thy son and heir
more early down.

Montague.

Alas, my liege,
my wife is dead to-night!

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

What further woe conspires
against mine age?

Prince.

Look, and thou shalt see.

Montague.

O thou untaught!
What manners is in this,

To press before thy father
to a grave?

Prince.

Seal up the mouth of outrage
for a while,

Till we can clear 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.

Friar.

I am the greatest,
able to do least,

Yet most suspected,
as the time and place

Doth make against me,
of this direful murther;

And here I stand,
both to impeach and purge

Myself condemned
and myself excus'd.

Prince.

Then say it once
what thou dost know in this.

Friar.

I will be brief,
for my short date of breath

Is not so long
as is a tedious tale.

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 mean

To rid her
from this second marriage,

Or in my cell there
would she kill herself.

Then gave I her
(so tutored 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,

Being the time
the potion's force should cease.

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 County 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 herself.

All this I know,
and to the marriage

Her nurse is privy;
and if aught in this

Miscarried by my fault,
let my old life

Be sacrific'd,
some hour before his time,

Unto the rigour of severest law.

Prince.

We still have known thee
for a holy man.

Where's Romeo's man?
What can he say in this?

Balthasar.

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,

And threat'ned me with death,
going in the vault,

If I departed not
and left him there.

Prince.

Give me the letter.
I will look on it.

Where is the County's page
that rais'd the watch?

Sirrah, what made your master
in this place?

Boy.

He came with flowers
to strew his lady's grave;

And bid me stand aloof,
and so I did.

Anon comes one with light
to ope the tomb;

And by-and-by
my master drew on him;

And then I ran away
to call the watch.

Prince.

This letter doth make good
the friar's words,

Their course of love,
the tidings of her death;

And here he writes
that he did buy a poison

Of a poor 'pothecary,
and therewithal

Came to this vault to die,
and lie with Juliet.

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.

Capulet.

O brother Montague,
give me thy hand.

This is my daughter's jointure,
for no more

Can I demand.

Montague.

But I can give thee more;

For I will raise her Statue
in pure gold,

That whiles Verona
by that name is known,

There shall no figure
at such rate be set

As that
of true and faithful Juliet.

Capulet.

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

Poor sacrifices of our enmity!

Prince.

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.

Exeunt omnes.

THE END