1 Ser.

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

2 Ser.

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

1 Ser.

Away with the joint-stools, remove the court-cup-board, look to the plate: good thou, save me a piece of march-pane; and, as thou lovest me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone, and Nell. Antony, and Potpan,—

2 Ser.

Ay, boy, ready.

1 Ser.

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

2 Ser.

We cannot be here and there too; chearly, boys; be brisk a while, and the longer liver take all.

1 Cap.
Welcome, Gentlemen. Ladies, that have your feet
Unplagu'd with corns, we'll have a bout with you.
Ah me, my mistresses, which of you all
Will now deny to dance? she that makes dainty,
I'll swear, hath corns; am I come near you now?
Welcome, all, Gentlemen; I've 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! [Musick plays, and they dance.
More light, ye 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 your self and I
Were in a mask?

2 Cap.
By'r lady, thirty years.

1 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.

1 Cap.
Will you tell me that?
His son was but a ward two years ago.

Rom.
What lady's That, which doth enrich the hand
Of yonder knight?

Ser.
I know not, Sir.

Rom.
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright;
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night,

Like a rich jewel in an Æthiop's ear:
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shews 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 happy my rude hand.
Did my heart love 'till now? forswear it, sight;
I never 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 antick face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
Now by the stock and honour of my kin,
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.

Cap.
Why, how now, kinsman, wherefore storm you so?

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

Cap.
Young Romeo, is't?

Tyb.
That villain Romeo.

Cap.
Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone;
He bears him like a portly Gentleman:
And, to say truth, Verona brags of him,
To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth.
I would not for the wealth of all this town,
Here in my house, do him disparagement.
Therefore be patient, take no note of him;
It is my will, the which if thou respect,
Shew a fair presence, and put off these frowns,
An ill beseeming semblance for a feast.

Tyb.
It fits, when such a villain is a guest.
I'll not endure him.

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?

Tyb.
Why, uncle, 'tis a shame.

Cap.
Go to, go to,
You are a sawcy 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 bitter gall.

Rom.
If I profane with my unworthy hand(12) ^note

Jul.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
  Which mannerly devotion shews in this;
For Saints have hands that pilgrims hands do touch,
  And palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss.

Rom.
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

Jul.
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

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

Jul.
Saints do not move, yet grant for prayers sake,

Rom.
Then move not, while my prayers effect I take:
Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purg'd. [Kissing her.

Jul.
Then have my lips the sin that late they took.

Rom.
Sin from my lips! O trespass, sweetly urg'd!
Give me my sin again.

Jul.
You kiss by th' book.

Nurse.
Madam, your mother craves a word with you.

Rom.
What is her mother? [To her Nurse.

Nurse.
Marry, batchelor,
Her mother is the lady of the house,
And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous.
I nurs'd her daughter, that you talkt withal:
I tell you, he, that can lay hold of her,
Shall have the chink.

Rom.
Is she a Capulet?
O dear account! my life is my foe's debt.

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

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

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—come on, then let's to bed,
Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late.
I'll to my Rest. [Exeunt.

Jul.
Come hither, nurse. What is yon gentleman?

Nurse.
The son and heir of old Tiberio.

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

Nurse.
That, as I think, is young Petruchio.

Jul.
What's he that follows here, that would not dance?

Nurse.
I know not.

Jul.
Go ask his name. If he be married,
My Grave is like to be my wedding bed.

Nurse.
His name is Romeo, and a Montague,
The only son of your great enemy.

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.

Nurse.
What's this? what's this?

Jul.
A rhime I learn'd e'en now
Of one I danc'd withal. [One calls within, Juliet.

Nurse.
Anon, anon—
Come, let's away, the strangers all are gone. [Exeunt.

Enter CHORUS.
Now old Desire doth on his death-bed lye,
  And young affection gapes to be his heir:
That Fair, for which love groan'd sore, 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 any where:
But Passion lends them power, Time means, to meet;
Temp'ring extremities with extream sweet. [Exit Chorus.

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