Sampson.
Gregory, I strike quickly, being mov'd.

Greg.
But thou art not quickly mov'd to strike.

Sam.
A dog of the house of Montague moves me.

Greg.
Draw thy tool then, for here come of that house. Enter Abram and Balthasar.† ^note

Sam.

My naked weapon is out; quarrel, I will back thee, but—let us take the law of our sides: let them begin.

Greg.

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

Sam.

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

Abra.

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir.

Sam.

I do bite my thumb, sir.

Abra.

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Sam.

Is they law on our side, if I say ay?

Greg.

No.

Sam.

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

Greg.

Do you quarrel, sir.

Abr.

Quarrel, sir? no, sir.

Sam.

If you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you.

Abr.

No better, sir.

Sam.

Well, sir.

Greg.

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

Sam.

Yes, better, sir.

Abr.

You lye.

Sam.

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

Ben.

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

Tib.
What art thou drawn amongst these heartless hinds?
Turn these, 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.

Tib.
What drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word,
As I hate hell, all Mountagues and thee:
Have at thee, coward. [They fight.

[Within.]
Down with the Capulets, down with the Montagues.
A mutiny—a mutiny— [Bell rings. Enter old Mountague.* ^note

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

Enter Prince and Attendants.

Prin.
Capulet and Mountague,
Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,
Prophaners of this neighbour-stained steel—
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
Throw your mis-temper'd weapons to the ground,
And hear the sentence of your moved prince.
Three civil broils, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet and Mountague,
Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets:
If ever you affright 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 Mountague, come you, this afternoon,
To know our further pleasure in this case.
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart. [Exeunt Prince, Capulet, &c. Manent Mountague and Benvolio.

Moun.
Who set this antient quarrel now 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 Tibalt, with his sword prepar'd,
Which as he breath'd defiance to my ears,
He swung about his head, and cut the winds;
While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,
Came more and more, and fought on part and part,
'Till the prince came.

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

Ben.
My lord, an hour before the worship'd sun† ^note
Peer'd through the golden window of the east,

A troubled mind drew me to walk abroad:
Where underneath the grove of sycamore,
That westward rooteth from the city side,
So early walking did I see your son.
Tow'rds him I made, but he was 'ware of me,
And stole into the covert of a wood.
I, measuring his affections by my own,
(That most are busied when they're most alone,)
Pursu'd my humour, not pursuing him,
And gladly shun'd, who gladly fled from me.

Moun.
Many a morning hath he there been seen,
With tears augmenting the fresh morning dew;
But all so soon as the all-chearing sun
Should, in the farthest east, begin to draw
The shady curtains from Aurora's bed;
Away from light steals home my heavy son,
And private in his chamber pens himself;
Shuts up his windows, locks fair day-light out,
And makes himself an artificial night.
Black and portentous must this humour prove,
Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

Ben.
My noble uncle, do you know the cause?

Moun.
I neither know it, nor can learn it of him.

Ben.
Have you importun'd him, by any means?

Moun.
Both by myself and many other friends;
But he, his own affection's 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.

Ben.
So please you, sir, Mercutio and myself
Are most near to him; be it that our years,
Statures, births, fortunes, studies, inclinations,
Measure the rule of his, I know not; but
Friendship still loves to sort him with his like.
We will attempt upon his privacy;
And could we learn from whence his sorrows grow,
We would as willingly give cure, as knowledge.

Moun.
'Twill bind us to you: good Benvolio, go.

Ben.
We'll know his grievance, or be much denied. [Exeunt severally. Scene SCENE before Capulet's House. Enter Capulet, Paris, and a Servant.* ^note

Cap.
And Mountague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard
For men so old as we to keep the peace.

Par.
Of honourable reck'ning 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 eighteen years;
Let two more summers wither in their pride,
Ere we may think her ripe to be a wife.

Par.
Younger than she are happy mothers made.

Cap.
And too soon marr'd are those so early made:
The earth hath swallow'd all my hopes but her.
But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart;
If she agree, within her scope of choice
Lies my consent, so woo her, gentle Paris.
This night I hold an old accustom'd feast,
Whereto I have invited many a friend,
Such as I love, and you among the rest;
One more most welcome!
Come, go with me. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE a Wood near Verona. Romeo crosses the Stage. Enter Benvolio† ^note and Mercutio.

Mer.
See where he steals—Told I you not, Benvolio,
That we should find this melancholy Cupid

Lock'd in some gloomy covert, under key
Of cautionary silence; with his arms
Threaded, like these cross boughs, in sorrow's knot. Enter Romeo.

Ben.
Good-morrow, cousin.

Rom.
Is the day so young?

Ben.
But new struck nine.

Rom.
Ah me! sad hours seem long.

Mer.
Pr'ythee, what sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?

Rom.
Not having that, which having, makes them short.

Ben.
In love, me seems!
Alas, that love so gentle to the view,
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!

Rom.
Where shall we dine?—O me—cousin Benvolio,
What was the fray this morning with the Capulets?
Yet, tell me not, for I have heard it all.
Here's much to do with hate, but more with love:
Love, heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
This love feel I; but such my froward fate,
That there I love where most I ought to hate.
Dost thou not laugh, my coz?—Oh Juliet, Juliet!

Ben.
No, coz, I had rather weep.

Rom.
Good heart, at what?—

Ren.
At thy good heart's oppression.

Mer.
Tell me, in sadness, who is she you love?

Rom.
In sadness, then, I love a woman.

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

Rom.
A right good marksman! and she's fair I love;
But knows not of my love: 'twas through my eyes
The shaft empierc'd my heart; chance gave the wound,
Which time can never heal; no star befriends me;
To each sad night succeeds a dismal morrow;* ^note
And still 'tis hopeless love, and endless sorrow.

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

Rom.
O teach me how I should forget to think.

Mer.
By giving liberty unto thine eyes:
Take thou some new infection to thy heart,
And the rank poison of the old will die.
Examine other beauties.

Rom.
He that is strucken blind cannot forget
The precious treasure of his eye-sight lost.
Shew me a mistress that is passing fair;
What doth her beauty serve, but as a note,
Remembering me, who past that passing fair.
Farewel, thou can'st not teach me to forget.

Mer.
I warrant thee, if thou'lt but stay to hear;
To-night there is an ancient splendid feast,
Kept by old Capulet, our enemy,
Where all the beauties of Verona meet.

Rom.
At Capulet's!

Mer.
At Capulet's, my friend;
Go there, and with an 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 falsehoods, then turn tears to fires;
And burn the hereticks. All-seeing Phœbus
Ne'er saw her match, since first his course began.

Mer.
Tut, tut, you saw her fair, none else being by.
Herself pois'd with herself; but let be weigh'd
Your lady love against some other fair,
And she will shew scant well.

Rom.
I will along, Mercutio.

Mer.
'Tis well. Look to behold at this high feast,
Earth treading stars, that make dim heaven's lights.

Hear all, all see, try all; and like her most,
That most shall merit thee.

Rom.
My mind is chang'd—
I will not go, to-night.

Mer.
Why, may one ask?

Rom.
I dream'd a dream, last night.

Mer.
Ha! ha! a dream?
O then I see queen Mab has been with you.* ^note
She is the fancy's mid-wife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agat-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies,
Athwart mens noses as they lie asleep:
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners legs;
The cover, of the wings of grashoppers;
The traces, of the smallest spider's web;
The collars, of the moon-shine's watery beams;
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film:
Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm,
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid.
Her chariot is an empty hazel nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,
Time out of mind the fairies coach-makers.
And in this state she gallops, night by night,
Through lovers brains, and then they dream of love;
On courtiers knees, that dream on curt'sies straight:
O'er lawyers fingers, who straight dream on fees;
O'er ladies lips, who straight on kisses dream.
Sometimes she gallops o'er a lawyer's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit:
And sometimes comes she with a tythe-pig's tail,
Tickling the parson, as he 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 fathom deep; and then, anon,
Drums in his ears, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again. This is that Mab—

Rom.
Peace, peace,
Thou talk'st of nothing.

Mer.
True, I talk of dreams;
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing, but vain phantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air,
And more unconstant than the wind.* ^note

Ben.
This wind you talk of, blows us from ourselves,
And we shall come too late.

Rom.
I fear too early; for my mind misgives
Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,
From this night's revels—lead, gallant friends; [Exeunt Mer. and Ben.
Let come what may, once more I will behold
My Juliet's eyes, drink deeper of affliction:
I'll watch the time; and mask'd from observation,
Make known my sufferings, but conceal my name:
Tho' hate and discord 'twixt our fires increase,
Let in our hearts dwell love and endless peace.† ^note [Exit Romeo.

Scene SCENE Capulet's House. Enter Lady Capulet, and Nurse.* ^note

La. Cap.

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

Nurse.

Now (by my maiden-head, at twelve year old) I bade her come. What, lamb! what, lady-bird! God forbid—where's this girl? What, Juliet!

Jul.

How now! who calls?

Nurse.

Your mother.

Jul.

Madam, I am here, what is your will?

La. Cap.

This is the matter—Nurse, give leave a while, we must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again, I have remember'd me; thou shalt hear my counsel: thou know'st my daughter's of a pretty age.

Nurse.

Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.

La. Cap.

She's not eighteen.

Nurse.

I'll lay eighteen of my teeth, and yet to my teeth be it spoken, I have but eight: she's not eighteen. How long is it now to Lammas-tide?

La. Cap.

A fortnight and odd days.

Nurse.

Even or odd, of all days in the year, come Lammas eve at night, shall she be eighteen. Susan and she, (Heav'n rest all christian souls) were of an age.‡ ^note Well, Susan is in Heav'n; she was too good for me. But

as I said, on Lammas-eve at night, shall she be eighteen, that shall she, marry; I remember it well. 'Tis since the earthquake, now fifteen years; and she was wean'd, I never shall forget it, of all the days in the year, upon that day: for I had then laid wormwood to my breast, sitting in the sun under the dove-housewall; 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 the breast, and felt it bitter, pretty fool, to see it teachy, and fall out with the breast. Shake, quoth the dove-house—'twas no need, I trow, to bid me trudge. And since that time it is fifteen years, for then she could stand alone, nay, by the rood, she could have run, and waddled all about; for even the day before, she broke her brow: And then my husband, (Heav'n 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 holy dam, the pretty wretch left crying, and said, ay. To see now, how a jest shall come about. I warrant, an I should live a thousand years, I should not forget it. Wilt thou not, Jule, quoth he? And pretty fool, it stinted,* ^note and said ay.

Jul.
And stint thee, too, I pray thee, peace.

Nurse.
Peace, I have done. Heav'n mark thee to its grace.
Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nurst:
An' I might live to see thee married once,
I have my wish.

La. Cap.
And that same marriage is the very theme
I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,
How stands your disposition to be married?

Jul.
It is an honour that I dream not of.

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

La. Cap.
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.

La. Cap.
Verona's summer hath not such a flower.

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

La. Cap.
Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love?

Jul.
I'll look to like, if looking liking move;
But no more deep will I indart my eye,
Than your consent gives strength to make it fly. Enter Gregory.

Greg.

Madam, new guests are come, and brave ones, all in masks. You are call'd; my young lady ask'd for, the Nurse curs'd in the pantry; supper almost ready to be serv'd up, and every thing in extremity. I must hence, and wait.

La. Cap.

We follow thee.