The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare

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THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET

  Citizens of Verona; Gentlemen and Gentlewomen of both houses;
    Maskers, Torchbearers, Pages, Guards, Watchmen, Servants, and
    Attendants.

SCENE.—Verona; Mantua.

THE PROLOGUE

  Chor. 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.

Greg. To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand.
Therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn'st away.

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

Samp. '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.

Samp. '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.

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

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

Greg. '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.

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

Ben. Part, fools! [Beats down their swords.]
Put up your swords. You know not what you do.

Tyb. What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?
Turn thee Benvolio! look upon thy death.

Ben. I do but keep the peace. Put up thy sword,
Or manage it to part these men with me.

  Tyb. What, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word
    As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.
    Have at thee, coward! They fight.

Cap. My sword, I say! Old Montague is come
And flourishes his blade in spite of me.

  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].

Mon. Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?
Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?

  Ben. 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.

M. Wife. O, where is Romeo? Saw you him to-day?
Right glad I am he was not at this fray.

  Ben. 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.

  Mon. 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.

  Mon. 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.

Ben. See, where he comes. So please you step aside,
I'll know his grievance, or be much denied.

  Mon. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay
    To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let's away,
                                     Exeunt [Montague and Wife].

Ben. Alas that love, so gentle in his view,
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!

  Rom. 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?

  Rom. 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.

Rom. Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here:
This is not Romeo, he's some other where.

  Rom. 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.

  Rom. 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.

  Rom. 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.

  Rom. '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.

Scene II. A Street.

  Cap. 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.

  Par. 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?

  Cap. 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.

  Cap. And too soon marr'd are those so early made.
    The earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she;
    She is the hopeful lady of my earth.
    But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart;
    My will to her consent is but a part.
    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 Paris].

Serv. 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!

  Ben. Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning;
    One pain is lessoned by another's anguish;
    Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;
    One desperate grief cures with another's languish.
    Take thou some new infection to thy eye,
    And the rank poison of the old will die.

  Rom. 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.

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

      '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.'

Serv. 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.

  Ben. 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.

  Rom. 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.

  Ben. 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.

Rom. I'll go along, no such sight to be shown,
But to rejoice in splendour of my own. [Exeunt.]

Scene III. Capulet's house.

  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!

  Wife. 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. 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?

  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 yeas,
    I never should forget it. 'Wilt thou not, Jule?' quoth he,
    And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said 'Ay.'

  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.'

  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.

  Wife. Marry, that 'marry' is the very theme
    I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,
    How stands your disposition to be married?

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

  Wife. 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.

Nurse. A man, young lady! lady, such a man
As all the world- why he's a man of wax.

  Wife. 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'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.

  Jul. 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.

Serv. 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.

Scene IV. A street.

Rom. What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?
Or shall we on without apology?

  Ben. 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.

Rom. Give me a torch. I am not for this ambling.
Being but heavy, I will bear the light.

  Rom. 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.

Mer. You are a lover. Borrow Cupid's wings
And soar with them above a common bound.

  Rom. 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.

Mer. And, to sink in it, should you burthen love-
Too great oppression for a tender thing.

Rom. Is love a tender thing? It is too rough,
Too rude, too boist'rous, and it pricks like thorn.

  Mer. 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.

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

  Rom. 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.

  Mer. 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!

  Mer. 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.

  Mer. 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 cursies 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-

  Mer. 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.

Ben. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves.
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.

  Rom. 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!

Scene V. Capulet's house.

  1. Serv. Where's Potpan, that he helps not to take away?
    He shift a trencher! he scrape a trencher!
  2. Serv. When good manners shall lie all in one or two men's
    hands, and they unwash'd too, 'tis a foul thing.
  1. Serv. 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. Serv. Ay, boy, ready.
  1. Serv. You are look'd for and call'd for, ask'd for and
    sought for, in the great chamber.
  3. Serv. 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.

  Cap. 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. Cap. By'r Lady, thirty years.

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

Rom. [to a Servingman] What lady's that, which doth enrich the
hand Of yonder knight?

  Rom. 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.

  Tyb. 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.

  Tyb. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe;
    A villain, that is hither come in spite
    To scorn at our solemnity this night.

  Cap. 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.

  Cap. 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!

  Cap. 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!

  Tyb. 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.

  Rom. 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.

  Jul. 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.

Rom. O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do!
They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.

Rom. Then move not while my prayer's effect I take.
Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg'd. [Kisses her.]

Rom. Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg'd!
Give me my sin again. [Kisses her.]

  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.

  Cap. 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].

  Jul. 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.

  Jul. A rhyme I learnt even now
    Of one I danc'd withal.
                                     One calls within, 'Juliet.'

PROLOGUE

  Chor. 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.

  Rom. 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.]

  Mer. 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!

  Mer. 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.

  Ben. Come, he hath hid himself among these trees
    To be consorted with the humorous night.
    Blind is his love and best befits the dark.

  Mer. 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?

  Ben. Go then, for 'tis in vain
    'To seek him here that means not to be found.
                                                         Exeunt.

Scene II. Capulet's orchard.

    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!

  Rom. 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.

  Jul. 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.

  Jul. '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.

  Rom. I take thee at thy word.
    Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'd;
    Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

Jul. What man art thou that, thus bescreen'd in night,
So stumblest on my counsel?

  Rom. 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.

  Jul. 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?

  Jul. 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.

  Rom. 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.

  Rom. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye
    Than twenty of their swords! Look thou but sweet,
    And I am proof against their enmity.

  Rom. 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.

  Rom. 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.

  Jul. 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.

Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear,
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops-

  Jul. O, swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon,
    That monthly changes in her circled orb,
    Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

  Jul. 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.

  Jul. 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!

Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it;
And yet I would it were to give again.

  Jul. 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.]

  Rom. O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,
    Being in night, all this is but a dream,
    Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.

  Jul. 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.

  Jul. By-and-by I come.-
    To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief.
    To-morrow will I send.

  Rom. 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.

  Jul. 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!

  Rom. It is my soul that calls upon my name.
    How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
    Like softest music to attending ears!

Jul. I will not fail. 'Tis twenty years till then.
I have forgot why I did call thee back.

Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,
Rememb'ring how I love thy company.

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

  Jul. '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.

  Jul. 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.]

  Rom. 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.

  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.
    Non, 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 gave, 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.

  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.

Rom. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? No.
I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.

  Rom. 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.

  Rom. 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.

  Rom. 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.

Scene IV. A street.

Mer. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline,
Torments him so that he will sure run mad.

Ben. Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet,
Hath sent a letter to his father's house.

Mer. 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?

Mer. 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.

Mer. 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!

Mer. 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, This be 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.

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

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

Mer. 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.

Mer. 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?

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

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

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

Mer. 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.

Mer. 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.

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

  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?

  Rom. 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.

  Mer. 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.

  Mer. 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?

Rom. 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.

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

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

  Rom. 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.

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

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 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 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?

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.

Scene V. Capulet's orchard.

  Jul. 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.

O God, she comes! O honey nurse, what news?
Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.

  Jul. 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!

Jul. 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?

  Jul. 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?

Jul. 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!

Jul. 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?

  Jul. 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.

  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.

Scene VI. Friar Laurence's cell.

Friar. So smile the heavens upon this holy act
That after-hours with sorrow chide us not!

  Rom. 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.

    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.

  Rom. 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.

  Jul. 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.

  Ben. I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire.
    The day is hot, the Capulets abroad.
    And if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,
    For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.

  Mer. 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.

Mer. 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.

Mer. 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!

Ben. 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.

Tyb. Follow me close, for I will speak to them.
Gentlemen, good den. A word with one of you.

Mer. And but one word with one of us?
Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow.

Mer. 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!

  Ben. 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.

Mer. Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.
I will not budge for no man's pleasure,

  Mer. 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.

Tyb. Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford
No better term than this: thou art a villain.

  Rom. 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.

Tyb. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries
That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw.

  Rom. 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.

  Mer. O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!
    Alla stoccata carries it away. [Draws.]
    Tybalt, you ratcatcher, will you walk?

Mer. 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.

  Rom. 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].

  Mer. I am hurt.
    A plague o' both your houses! I am sped.
    Is he gone and hath nothing?

  Mer. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, 'tis enough.
    Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.
                                                    [Exit Page.]

  Mer. 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.

  Mer. 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].

  Rom. 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

  Ben. O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio's dead!
    That gallant spirit hath aspir'd the clouds,
    Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.

Rom. This day's black fate on moe days doth depend;
This but begins the woe others must end.

  Rom. 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.

  Ben. 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!

  Ben. Why dost thou stay?
                                                     Exit Romeo.
                      Enter Citizens.

Citizen. Which way ran he that kill'd Mercutio?
Tybalt, that murtherer, which way ran he?

  Ben. 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.

  Cap. Wife. 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!

  Ben. 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.

  Cap. Wife. 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?

  Mon. 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.

  Jul. 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,

    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. 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!

  Nurse. Romeo can,
    Though heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo!
    Who ever would have thought it? Romeo!

  Jul. 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.

  Jul. 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!

  Jul. 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.

  Jul. 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!

  Jul. 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!

  Jul. 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.

  Jul. 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.

  Jul. 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.

  Friar. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man.
    Affliction is enanmour'd of thy parts,
    And thou art wedded to calamity.

  Rom. 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.

Friar. A gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips-
Not body's death, but body's banishment.

  Rom. 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.

  Rom. 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.

  Rom. '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. I'll give thee armour to keep off that word;
    Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy,
    To comfort thee, though thou art banished.

  Rom. 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.

  Rom. 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].

Rom. 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.

Nurse. O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar
Where is my lady's lord, where's Romeo?

  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?

  Rom. 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.

  Rom. 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.

Nurse. Here is a ring she bid me give you, sir.
Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. Exit.

  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.

  Rom. 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

  Cap. 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.

Par. These times of woe afford no tune to woo.
Madam, good night. Commend me to your daughter.

Lady. I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;
To-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness.

  Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender
    Of my child's love. I think she will be rul'd
    In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not.
    Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed;
    Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love
    And bid her (mark you me?) on Wednesday next-
    But, soft! what day is this?

  Cap. 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?

  Cap. 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.

  Jul. 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.

  Rom. 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.

  Jul. 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.

  Rom. 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.

  Jul. 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.

Nurse. Your lady mother is coming to your chamber.
The day is broke; be wary, look about.

  Jul. 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!

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

Rom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come.

  Jul. 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.

Rom. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you.
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu!
Exit.

  Jul. 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.

  Jul. 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?

  Lady. 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.

Lady. Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death
As that the villain lives which slaughter'd him.

  Jul. [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.

Jul. Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands.
Would none but I might venge my cousin's death!

  Lady. 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.

  Jul. 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. Find thou the means, and I'll find such a man.
But now I'll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.

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

  Lady. 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.

  Lady. 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.

  Jul. Now by Saint Peter's Church, and Peter too,
    He shall not make me there a joyful bride!
    I wonder at this haste, that I must wed
    Ere he that should be husband comes to woo.
    I pray you tell my lord and father, madam,
    I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear
    It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,
    Rather than Paris. These are news indeed!

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

  Cap. 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. Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks.
I would the fool were married to her grave!

  Cap. 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?

  Jul. 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.

  Cap. 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 Paris to Saint Peter's Church,
    Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
    Out, you green-sickness carrion I out, you baggage!
    You tallow-face!

Jul. Good father, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak a word.

  Cap. 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!

Cap. And why, my Lady Wisdom? Hold your tongue,
Good Prudence. Smatter with your gossips, go!

  Cap. Peace, you mumbling fool!
    Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl,
    For here we need it not.

  Cap. God's bread I 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.

  Jul. 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. Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word.
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. Exit.

  Jul. 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 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.

  Jul. 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.

  Jul. 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.

Par. 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.

  Par. 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.

Jul. If I do so, it will be of more price,
Being spoke behind your back, than to your face.

Jul. The tears have got small victory by that,
For it was bad enough before their spite.

Jul. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth;
And what I spake, I spake it to my face.

  Jul. 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.

  Par. God shield I should disturb devotion!
    Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye.
    Till then, adieu, and keep this holy kiss. Exit.

Jul. 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.

  Jul. 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 scape from it;
    And, if thou dar'st, I'll give thee remedy.

  Jul. O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,
    From off the battlements of yonder tower,
    Or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk
    Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears,
    Or shut me nightly in a charnel house,
    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 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.

  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.

  Jul. Love give me strength! and strength shall help afford.
    Farewell, dear father.
                                                         Exeunt.

Scene II. Capulet's house.

  Cap. So many guests invite as here are writ.
                                            [Exit a Servingman.]
    Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.

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

Serv. Marry, sir, 'tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers. Therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me.

  Cap. Go, begone.
                                                Exit Servingman.
    We shall be much unfurnish'd for this time.
    What, is my daughter gone to Friar Laurence?

Cap. Well, be may chance to do some good on her.
A peevish self-will'd harlotry it is.

  Jul. 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.

Cap. Send for the County. Go tell him of this.
I'll have this knot knit up to-morrow morning.

  Jul. I met the youthful lord at Laurence' cell
    And gave him what becomed love I might,
    Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty.

  Cap. 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.

  Jul. 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?

Cap. Go, nurse, go with her. We'll to church to-morrow.
Exeunt Juliet and Nurse.

  Cap. 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.

  Jul. 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.

  Jul. 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.]

  Jul. 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.

Scene IV. Capulet's house.

  Cap. 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.

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

  Lady. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time;
    But I will watch you from such watching now.
                                          Exeunt Lady and Nurse.

  Cap. 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.

  Cap. 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 Paris. Hie, make haste,
    Make haste! The bridegroom he is come already:
    Make haste, I say.
                                                       [Exeunt.]

Scene V. Juliet's chamber.

  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!

  Mother. O me, O me! My child, my only life!
    Revive, look up, or I will die with thee!
    Help, help! Call help.

  Cap. 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.

Cap. Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail,
Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak.

  Cap. 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.

Par. 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!

  Par. 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

  Cap. 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.

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

  Pet. Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease,' 'Heart's ease'!
    O, an you will have me live, play 'Heart's ease.'
  1. Mus. Why 'Heart's ease'',

  Pet. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My heart is
    full of woe.' O, play me some merry dump to comfort me.
  1. Mus. Not a dump we! 'Tis no time to play now.

  Pet. No money, on my faith, but the gleek. I will give you the
     minstrel.
  1. Mus. Then will I give you the serving-creature.

  Pet. 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. Mus. An you re us and fa us, you note us.
  2. Mus. Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit.

Pet. 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. Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.

Pet. Pretty! What say You, Hugh Rebeck?
2. Mus. I say 'silver sound' because musicians sound for silver.

Pet. Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost?
3. Mus. Faith, I know not what to say.

  Pet. 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.

  1. Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same?
  2. Mus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here, tarry for the
    mourners, and stay dinner.
                                                         Exeunt.

ACT V. Scene I. Mantua. A street.

  Rom. 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!

    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.

  Rom. 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.

  Rom. Tush, thou art deceiv'd.
    Leave me and do the thing I bid thee do.
    Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?

  Rom. 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!

  Rom. 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 mall 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.

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

  Rom. 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.

  Apoth. 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.

  Rom. 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.

  Laur. 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.

  John. I could not send it- here it is again-
    Nor get a messenger to bring it thee,
    So fearful were they of infection.

  Laur. 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.

  Laur. 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.

  Par. 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.]

  Par. 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.]

  Rom. 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.

Rom. So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that.
Live, and be prosperous; and farewell, good fellow.

Bal. [aside] For all this same, I'll hide me hereabout.
His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt. [Retires.]

  Rom. 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.

  Par. 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.

  Rom. 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.

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

  Rom. 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 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.

Friar. Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-night
Have my old feet stumbled at graves! Who's there?

  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.

  Bal. 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.

  Bal. 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, Paris too?
    And steep'd in blood? Ah, what an unkind hour
    Is guilty of this lamentable chance! The lady stirs.
                                                   Juliet rises.

  Jul. 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 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.

  Jul. 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?
    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].

  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.

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.

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

  Wife. The people in the street cry 'Romeo,'
    Some 'Juliet,' and some 'Paris'; and all run,
    With open outcry, toward our monument.

  Chief Watch. Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain;
    And Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before,
    Warm and new kill'd.

  Chief Watch. Here is a friar, and slaughter'd Romeo's man,
    With instruments upon them fit to open
    These dead men's tombs.

  Cap. 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!

Wife. O me! this sight of death is as a bell
That warns my old age to a sepulchre.

Prince. Come, Montague; for thou art early up
To see thy son and heir more early down.

  Mon. 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?

Mon. 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.

  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 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?

  Bal. 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, Montage,
    See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
    That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love!
    And I, for winking at you, discords too,
    Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish'd.

  Cap. O brother Montague, give me thy hand.
    This is my daughter's jointure, for no more
    Can I demand.

  Mon. 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.

  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

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