Front Page Titles (by Subject) ACT I. - Romeo and Juliet
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ACT I. - William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet 
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (The Oxford Shakespeare), ed. with a glossary by W.J. Craig M.A. (Oxford University Press, 1916).
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Verona. A Public Place.
EnterSampsonandGregory,armed with swords and bucklers.
Gregory, o’ my word, we’ll not carry coals.
No. for then we should be colliers.
I mean, an we be in choler, we’ll draw.
Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.
I strike quickly, being moved.
But thou art not quickly moved to strike.
A dog of the house of Montague moves me.
To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand; therefore, if thou art moved, thou runnest away.
A dog of that house shall move me to stand: I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.
That shows thee a weak slave; for the weakest goes to the wall.
’Tis true; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and thrust his maids to the wall.
The quarrel is between our masters and us their men.
’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids; I will cut off their heads.
The heads of the maids?
Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense thou wilt.
They must take it in sense that feel it.
Me they shall feel while I am able to stand; and ’tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh.
’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John. Draw thy tool; here comes two of the house of the Montagues.
My naked weapon is out; quarrel, I will back thee.
How! turn thy back and run?
Fear me not.
No, marry; I fear thee!
Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin.
I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.
Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them; which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it.
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
I do bite my thumb, sir.
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
[Aside toGregory.] Is the law of our side if I say ay?
[Aside toSampson.] No.
No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.
Do you quarrel, sir?
Quarrel, sir! no, sir.
If you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you.
[Aside toSampson.] Say, ‘better;’ here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.
Yes, better, sir.
Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow.
Put up your swords; you know not what you do.
[Beats down their swords.
What! art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?
Turn-thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.
I do but keep the peace: put up thy sword,
Or manage it to part these men with me.
What! drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word,
As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.
Have at thee, coward!
Enter several persons of both houses, who join the fray; then enter Citizens, with clubs and partisans.
Clubs, bills, and partisans! strike! beat them down!
Down with the Capulets! down with the Montagues!
EnterCapuletin his gown, andLady Capulet.
What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!
A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?
My sword, I say! Old Montague is come,
And flourishes his blade in spite of me.
Thou villain Capulet! Hold me not; let me go.
Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.
EnterPrincewith his Train.
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 mis-temper’d weapons to the ground,
And hear the sentence of your moved prince.
Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,
Have thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets,
And made Verona’s ancient citizens
Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments,
To wield old partisans, in hands as old,
Canker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate.
If ever you disturb our streets again
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
For this time, all the rest depart away:
You, Capulet, shall go along with me;
And, Montague, come you this afternoon
To know our further pleasure in this case,
To old Free-town, our common judgment-place.
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.
[Exeunt all butMontague, Lady Montague,andBenvolio.
Who set this ancient quarrel new a-broach?
Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?
Here were the servants of your adversary
And yours close fighting ere I did approach:
I drew to part them; in the instant came
The fiery Tybalt, with his sword 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.
O! where is Romeo? saw you him to-day?
Right glad I am he was not at this fray.
Madam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun
Peer’d forth the golden window of the east,
A troubled mind 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,
That most are busied when they’re most alone,
Pursu’d my humour not pursuing his,
And gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me.
Many a morning hath he there been seen,
With tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew,
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs:
But all so soon as the all-cheering sun
Should in the furthest east begin to draw
The shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,
Away from light steals home my heavy son,
And private in his chamber pens himself,
Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out,
And makes himself an artificial night.
Black and portentous must this humour prove
Unless good-counsel may the cause remove.
My noble uncle, do you know the cause?
I neither know it nor can learn of him.
Have you importun’d him by any means?
Both by myself and many other friends:
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.
See where he comes: so please you, step aside;
I’ll know his grievance, or be much denied.
I would thou wert so happy by thy stay,
To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away.
Good morrow, cousin.
Is the day so young?
But new struck nine.
Ay me! sad hours seem long.
Was that my father that went hence so fast?
It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?
Not having that, which having, makes them short.
Out of her favour, where I am in love.
Alas! that love, so gentle in his view,
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof.
Alas! that love, whose view is muffled still,
Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will.
Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?
Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.
Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love:
Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
O any thing! of nothing first create.
O heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!
This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
Dost thou not laugh?
No, coz, I rather weep.
Good heart, at what?
At thy good heart’s oppression.
Why, such is love’s transgression.
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,
Which thou wilt propagate to have it press’d
With more of thine: this 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.
Soft, I will go along;
An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.
Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here;
This is not Romeo, he’s some other where.
Tell me in sadness, who is that you love.
What! shall I groan and tell thee?
Groan! why, no;
But sadly tell me who.
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.
I aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.
A right good mark-man! And she’s fair I love.
A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.
Well, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit
With Cupid’s arrow; she hath Dian’s wit;
And, in strong proof of chastity well arm’d,
From love’s weak childish bow she lives unharm’d.
She will not stay the siege of loving terms,
Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes,
Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:
O! she is rich in beauty; only poor
That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store.
Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?
She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;
For beauty, 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.
Be rul’d by me; forget to think of her.
O! teach me how I should forget to think.
By giving liberty unto thine eyes:
Examine other beauties.
’Tis the way
To call hers exquisite, in question more.
These happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows
Being black put us in mind they hide the fair;
He, that is strucken blind cannot forget
The precious treasure of his eyesight lost:
Show me a mistress that is passing fair,
What doth her beauty serve but as a note
Where I may read who pass’d that passing fair?
Farewell: thou canst not teach me to forget.
I’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.
The Same. A Street.
EnterCapulet, Paris,and Servant.
But Montague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike; and ’tis not hard, I think,
For men so old as we to keep the peace.
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?
But saying o’er what I have said before:
My child is yet a stranger in the world,
She hath not seen the change of fourteen years;
Let two more summers wither in their pride
Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.
Younger than she are happy mothers made.
And too soon marr’d are those so early made.
Earth hath swallow’d all my hopes but she,
She is the hopeful lady of my earth:
But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,
My will to her consent is but a part;
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-apparel’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 reckoning 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.
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.
Tut! man, one fire burns out another’s burning,
One pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish;
Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;
One desperate grief cures with another’s languish:
Take thou some new infection to thy eye,
And the rank poison of the old will die.
Your plantain leaf is excellent for that.
For what, I pray thee?
For your broken shin.
Why, Romeo, art thou mad?
Not mad, but bound more than a madman is;
Shut up in prison, kept without my food,
Whipp’d and tormented, and—Good den, good fellow.
God gi’ good den. I pray, sir, can you read?
Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.
Perhaps you have learn’d it without book: but, I pray, can you read any thing you see?
Ay, if I know the letters and the language.
Ye say honestly; rest you merry!
[Offering to go.
Stay, fellow; I can read.
Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; County Anselme and his beauteous sisters; the lady widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio, and his lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; mine uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters; my fair niece Rosaline; Livia; Signior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt; Lucio and the lively Helena.
A fair assembly: whither should they come?
To supper; to our house.
Indeed, I should have asked you that before.
Now I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet; and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray, come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry!
At this same ancient feast of Capulet’s,
Sups the fair Rosaline, whom thou so 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.
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.
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 shows best.
I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,
But to rejoice in splendour of mine own.
The Same. A Room inCapulet’sHouse.
EnterLady Capuletand Nurse.
Nurse, where’s my daughter? call her forth to me.
Now, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old,—
I bade her come. What, lamb! what, ladybird!
God forbid! where’s this girl? what, Juliet!
How now! who calls?
Madam, I am here.
What is your will?
This is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile.
We must talk in secret: nurse, come back again;
I have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel.
Thou know’st my daughter’s of a pretty age.
Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.
She’s not fourteen.
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
A fortnight and odd days.
Even or odd, of all days in the year,
Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen.
Susan and she—God rest all Christian souls!—
Were of an age. 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 dove-house wall;
My lord and you were then at Mantua.
Nay, I do bear a brain:—but, as I said,
When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple
Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool!
To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug.
‘Shake,’ quoth the dove-house: ’twas no need, I trow,
To bid me trudge:
And since that time it is eleven years;
For then she could stand high lone; nay, by the rood,
She could have run and waddled all about;
For even the day before she broke her brow:
And then my husband—God be with his soul!
A’ was a merry man—took up the child:
‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face?
Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;
Wilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my halidom,
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.’
Enough of this; I pray thee, hold thy peace.
Yes, madam. Yet I cannot choose but laugh,
To think it should leave crying, and say ‘Ay.’
And yet, I warrant, it had upon its brow
A bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone;
A parlous knock; and it cried bitterly:
‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face?
Thou wilt fall backward when thou com’st to age;
Wilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted and said ‘Ay.’
And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I.
Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace!
Thou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nursed:
An I might live to see thee married once,
I have my wish.
Marry, that ‘marry’ is the very theme
I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,
How stands your disposition to be married?
It is an honour that I dream not of.
An honour! were not I thine only nurse,
I would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat.
Well, think of marriage now; younger than you,
Here in Verona, ladies of esteem,
Are made already mothers: by my count,
I was your mother much upon these years
That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief,
The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.
A man, young lady! lady, such a man
As all the world—why, he’s a man of wax.
Verona’s summer hath not such a flower.
Nay, he’s a flower; in faith, a very flower.
What say you? can you love the gentleman?
This night you shall behold him at our feast;
Read o’er the volume of young Paris’ face
And find delight writ there with beauty’s pen;
Examine every 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 eyes doth share the glory,
That in gold clasps locks in the golden story:
So shall you share all that he doth possess,
By having him making yourself no less.
No less! nay, bigger; women grow by men.
Speak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love?
I’ll look to like, if looking liking move;
But no more deep will I endart mine eye
Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
Enter a Servant.
Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity. I must hence to wait; I beseech you, follow straight.
We follow thee. Juliet, the county stays.
Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.
The Same. A Street.
EnterRomeo, Mercutio, Benvolio,with five or six Masquers, Torch-Bearers, and Others.
What! shall this speech be spoke for our excuse,
Or shall we on without apology?
The date is out of such prolixity:
We’ll have no Cupid hood-wink’d with a scarf,
Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath,
Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;
Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke
After the prompter, for our entrance:
But, let them measure us by what they will,
We’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.
Give me a torch: I am not for this ambling;
Being but heavy, I will bear the light.
Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.
Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes
With nimble soles; I have a soul of lead
So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
You are a lover; borrow Cupid’s wings,
And soar with them above a common bound.
I am too sore enpierced with his shaft
To soar with his light feathers; and so bound
I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe:
Under love’s heavy burden do I sink.
And, to sink in it, should you burden love;
Too great oppression for a tender thing.
Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,
Too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.
If love be rough with you, be rough with love;
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.
Give me a case to put my visage in:
[Putting on a masque.
A visor for a visor! what care I,
What curious eye doth quote deformities?
Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me.
Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in,
But every man betake him to his legs.
A torch for me; let wantons, light of heart,
Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels,
For I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase;
I’ll be a candle holder, and look on.
The game was ne’er so fair, and I am done.
Tut! dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word.
If thou art Dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire,
Of—save your reverence—love, wherein thou stick’st
Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho!
Nay, that’s not so.
I mean, sir, in delay
We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits
Five times in that ere once in our five wits.
And we mean well in going to this masque;
But ’tis no wit to go.
Why, may one ask?
I dream’d a dream to-night.
And so did I.
Well, what was yours?
That dreamers often lie.
In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.
O! then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you.
Queen Mab! What’s she?
She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep:
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs;
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
The traces, of the smallest spider’s web;
The collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams;
Her whip, of cricket’s bone; the lash, of film;
Her waggoner, 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 hazel-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o’ mind the fairies’ coach-makers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love;
O’er courtiers’ knees, 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.
Sometimes she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometimes comes she with a tithe pig’s tail,
Tickling a parson’s nose as a’ lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another benefice;
Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish bladed,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes;
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
That plats the manes of horses in the night;
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once untangled much misfortune bodes;
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage:
This is she—
Peace, peace! Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk’st of nothing.
True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy;
Which is as thin of substance as the air,
And more inconstant than the wind, who woos
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves;
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
I fear too early; for my mind misgives
Some consequence yet hanging in the stars
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night’s revels, and expire the term
Of a 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.
The Same. A Hall inCapulet’sHouse.
Musicians waiting. Enter Servingmen.
Where’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away? he shift a trencher! he scrape a trencher!
When good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they unwashed too, ’tis a foul thing.
Away with the joint-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the plate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and, as thou lovest me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Antony! and Potpan!
Ay, boy; ready.
You are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for in the great chamber.
We cannot be here and there too.
Cheerly, boys; be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all.
[They retire behind.
EnterCapuletandJulietand Others of his house, meeting the Guests and Maskers.
Welcome, gentlemen! ladies that have their toes
Unplagu’d with corns will walk 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, ye knaves! and turn the tables up,
And quench the fire, the room has 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?
By’r Lady, thirty years.
What, man! ’tis not so much, ’tis not so much:
’Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,
Come Pentecost as quickly as it will,
Some five and twenty years; and then we mask’d.
’Tis more, ’tis more; his son is older, sir.
His son is thirty.
Will you tell me that?
His son was but a ward two years ago.
What lady is that which doth enrich the hand
Of yonder knight?
I know not, sir.
O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright.
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
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.
This, by his voice, should be a Montague.
Fetch me my rapier, boy. What! dares the slave
Come hither, cover’d with an antick face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
Now, by the stock and honour of my kin,
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.
Why, how now, kinsman! wherefore storm you so?
Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe;
A villain that is hither come in spite,
To scorn at our solemnity this night.
Young Romeo, is it?
’Tis he, that villain Romeo.
Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone:
He bears him like a portly gentleman;
And, to say truth, Verona brags of him
To be a virtuous and well-govern’d youth.
I would not for the wealth of all this town
Here in my house do him disparagement;
Therefore be patient, take no note of him:
It is my will; the which if thou respect,
Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,
An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.
It fits, when such a villain is a guest:
I’ll not endure him.
He shall be endur’d:
What! goodman boy; I say, he shall, go to;
Am I the master here, or you? go to.
You’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul!
You’ll make a mutiny among my guests!
You will set cock-a-hoop! you’ll be the man!
Why, uncle, ’tis a shame.
Go to, go to;
You are a saucy boy—is’t so indeed?—
This trick may chance to scathe you.—I know what:
You must contrary me! marry, ’tis time.
Well said, my hearts! You are a princox; go:
Be quiet, or—More light, more light!—For shame!
I’ll make you quiet. What! cheerly, my hearts!
Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting
Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.
I will withdraw; but this intrusion shall
Now seeming sweet convert to bitter gall.
[ToJuliet.] If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this;
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tenderkiss.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
O! then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.
Then move not, while my prayers’ effect I take.
Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purg’d.
Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d!
Give me my sin again.
You kiss by the book.
Madam, your mother craves a word with you.
What is her mother?
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.
Is she a Capulet?
O dear account! my life is my foe’s debt.
Away, be gone; the sport is at the best.
Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest.
Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone;
We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.
Is it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all;
I thank you, honest gentlemen; good-night.
More torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed.
Ah! sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late;
I’ll to my rest.
[Exeunt all exceptJulietand Nurse.
Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman?
The son and heir of old Tiberio.
What’s he that now is going out of door?
Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio.
What’s he, that follows there, that would not dance?
I know not.
Go, ask his name.—If he be married,
My grave is like to be my wedding bed.
His name is Romeo, and a Montague;
The only son of your great enemy.
My only love sprung from my only hate!
Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
Prodigious birth of love it is to me,
That I must love a loathed enemy.
What’s this, what’s this?
A rime I learn’d even now
Of one I danc’d withal.
[One calls within, ‘Juliet!’
Come, let’s away; the strangers are all gone.