Romeo.
Can I go forward, when my heart is here?
Turn back, dull earth, and find thy center out. [Exit. Enter Benvolio with Mercutio.

Ben.
Romeo, my cousin Romeo.

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

Ben.
He ran this way, and leap'd this orchard wall,
Call, good Mercutio.

Mer.
Nay, I'll conjure, too.
Why, Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover!
Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh.
Speak but one rhime, and I am satisfy'd.
Cry but Ah me! couple but love and dove,
Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,
One nick-name to her pur-blind son and heir;
I conjure thee, by thy mistress'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,* ^note
That in thy likeness thou appear to us.

Ben.
An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.

Mer.
This cannot anger him. 'Twould anger him
To raise a spirit in his mistress's arms,
'Till she had laid it. My invocation is

Fair and honest; and in his mistress's name,
I conjure only but to raise him up.

Ben.
Come, he hath hid himself among these trees,
To be consorted with the hum'rous night.

Mer.
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 SCENE, a Garden. Enter Romeo.* ^note

Rom.
He jests at scars that never felt a wound—
But soft, what light thro' yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! [Juliet appears above, at a window.
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.
She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?
Her eye discourses, I will answer it;
I am too bold—Oh, were those eyes in Heav'n,
They'd through the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing, and think it were the morn.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O that I were a glove upon that hand,† ^note
That I might touch that cheek!

Jul.
Ah me!

Rom.
She speaks, she speaks!
Oh speak again, bright angel, for thou art
As glorious to this sight, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger from Heav'n,

To the upturned wond'ring eyes of mortals,
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.

Jul.
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.† ^note

Rom.
Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? [Aside.

Jul.
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
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, quit 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, I will forswear my name,
And never more be Romeo.

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

Rom.
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.

Jul.
My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words,
Of that tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound.
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

Rom.
Neither, fair saint, if either thee displease.

Jul.
How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and for what?
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'er-perch these walls,

For stony limits cannot hold love out,
And what love can do, that dares love attempt.
Therefore, thy kinsmen are no stop to me.

Jul.
If they do see thee, they will murther thee.

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.

Jul.
I would not for the world they saw thee here.
By whose direction found'st thou out this place?

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.* ^note

Jul.
Thou know'st 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 farewel compliment
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say, ay,
And I will take thy word—yet if thou swear'st,
Thou may'st prove false; at lovers perjuries
They say Jove laughs. Oh, gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:
Or, if thou think'st 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 may'st 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 over-heard'st, ere I was 'ware,
My true love's passion; therefore pardon me,
And not impure this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered.

Rom.
Lady, by yonder blessed moon, I vow,* ^note

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

Rom.
What shall I swear by?

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.

Rom.
If my true heart's love—

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 flower, when next we meet.
Good night, good night—as sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart, as that within my breast.

Rom.
O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

Jul.
What satisfaction canst thou have, to-night?

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

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

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

Jul.
But to be frank, and give it thee, again.
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 afraid

Being in night, all this is but a dream!
Too flattering-sweet, to be substantial. Re-enter Juliet, above.

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 love, throughout the world. [Within. Madam.
I come, anon—but if thou mean'st not well,
I do beseech thee—[Within. Juliet.] By and by I come—
To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief.
To-morrow will I send.

Rom.
So thrive my soul.

Jul.
A thousand times good night. [Exit.

Rom.
A thousand times the worse to want thy light. Enter Juliet, again.* ^note

Jul.
Hist! Romeo, hist! O for a falk'ner's voice,
To lure this tassel‡ ^note 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.

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

Jul.
Romeo!

Rom.
My sweet!

Jul.
At what o'clock, to-morrow,
Shall I send to thee?

Rom.
By the hour of nine.

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

Rom.
Let me stand here till thou remember it.

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

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

Jul.
'Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone;
And yet no further than a wanton's bird,
That lets it hop a little from her hand,
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of his liberty.

Rom.
I would I were thy bird.

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 SCENE, a Monastery. Enter Friar Lawrence, with a basket.* ^note

Fri.
The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night,
Check'ring the eastern clouds with streaks of light,
Now ere the sun advance his burning eye,
The day to chear, and night's dank dew to dry,

I must fill up this ofier cage of ours,
With baleful weeds, and precious juiced flowers.
O mickle is the powerful grace, that lies
In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities.
For nought so vile, that on the earth doth live,
But to the earth some special good doth give:
Nor ought so good, but strain'd from that fair use,
Revolts to vice, and stumbles on abuse.
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,
And vice, sometimes by action's dignified.
Within the infant rind of this small flower,
Poison hath residence, and med'cine power:
For this being smelt, with that sense chears each part;
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed foes 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.

Rom. [Within.]
Good-morrow, father.

Fri.
Benedicite.
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Enter Romeo.
Young son, it argues a distemper'd head,
So soon to bid good-morrow to thy pillow.
Care keeps his watch on every old man's eye,
And where care lodgeth, sleep will never bide;
But where, with unstuft brain, unbruised youth
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep resides.
Therefore, thy earliness assureth me
Thou art up-rouz'd by some distemp'rature.
What is the matter, son?

Rom.
I tell thee ere thou ask it me again,
I have been feasting with mine enemy;
Where, to the heart's core one hath wounded me,
That's by me wounded; both our remedies
Within thy help and holy physic lie.

Fri.
Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift.

Rom.
Then plainly know, my heart's dear love is set
On Juliet, Capulet's fair daughter;

As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine:
But when, and where, and how
We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vows,
I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I beg,
That thou consent to marry us, to-day.

Fri.
Holy saint Francis, what a change is this!
But tell me, son, and call thy reason home,
Is not this love the offspring of thy folly,
Bred from thy wantonness and thoughtless brain?
Be heedful, youth, and see you stop betimes,
Lest that thy rash ungovernable passions,
O'er-leaping duty, and each due regard,
Hurry thee on, thro' short liv'd, dear-bought pleasures,
To cureless woes, and lasting penitence.

Rom.
I pray thee, chide me not; she whom I love,
Doth give me grace for grace, and love for love:
Do thou with Heav'n smile upon our union.
Do not withold thy benediction from us,
But make two hearts, by holy marriage, one.

Fri.
Well, come, my pupil, go along with me,
In one respect I'll give thee my assistance;
For this alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your household rancour to pure love.

Rom.
O let us hence, love stands on sudden haste.

Fri.
Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE, the Street. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.* ^note

Mer.

Where the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home, to-night?

Ben.

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

Mer.

Why, that same pale, hard-hearted wench, that Juliet, torments him so, that he will sure run mad.

Ben.

Tibalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, hath sent a letter to his father's house.

Mer.

A challenge, on my life.

Ben.

Romeo will answer it.

Mer.

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

Ben.

Why, what is Tibalt?

Mer.

Oh, he's the courageous captain of compliments; he fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests his minum, 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 reverso, the hay—

Ben.

The what?

Mer.

The pox of such antic, lisping, affected phantasies, these new tuners of accents.—Jesu, a very good blade—a very tall man—a very good whore—Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandfire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion mongers, these pardonnez moy's?

Ben.

Here comes Romeo.

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 be-rhime her. Dido, a dowdy; Cleopatra a gipsy; Helen and Hero hildings and harlots. Thisbe a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose.

Signior Romeo, bonjour, there's a French salutation for you.

Rom.

Good-morrow to you both.

Mer.

You gave us the counterfeit fairly, last night.

Rom.
What counterfeit did I give you?

Mer.
The slip, sir, the slip: can you not conceive?

Rom.

Pardon, Mercutio, my business was great, and in such a case as mine, a man may strain curtesy,

Ben.

A sail! a sail!

Mer.

Two, two, a shirt and a smock.

Nurse.

Peter.

Pet.

Anon.

Nurse.

My fan, Peter.

Mer.

Do, good Peter, to hide her face.

Nurse.

Good ye good-morrow, gentlemen.

Mer.

Good ye good-den, fair gentlewoman.

Nurse.

Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find young Romeo?

Rom.

I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse.

Nurse.
You say well. If you be he, sir,
I desire some confidence with you.

Ben.

She will indite him to supper, presently.

Mer.
A bawd, a bawd, a bawd: So ho.

Rom.
What hast thou found?

Mer.

No hare, sir, but a bawd. Romeo, will you come to your father's? We'll to dinner thither.

Rom.

I will follow you.

Mer.

Farewel, ancient lady.