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 satisfied.
Cry but Ay me! couple but love and dove,
Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,
One nick-name to her pur-blind son and heir,
(Young Abraham Cupid, he that shot so true,(13) ^note

When King Cophetua lov'd the beggar-maid—)
He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not,
The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.
I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes,
By her high fore-head, and her scarlet lip,
By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,
And the demeasns that there adjacent lye,
That in thy likeness thou appear to us.

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

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 spight. My invocation is
Honest and fair, and, 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 hum'rous 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,
Which maids call medlars, when they laugh alone.—
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 2 SCENE changes to Capulet's Garden. Enter Romeo.

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.
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—
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 of all the heav'n,
Having some business, do intreat 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 day-light doth a lamp; her eyes in heav'n
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!

Jul.
Ah me!

Rom.
She speaks.
Oh, speak again, bright angel! for thou art(14) ^note

As glorious to this Sight, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger from heav'n,
Unto the white upturned wondring 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.

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

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.
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 thy name, which is no part of thee,
Take all my self.

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 my self,
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 uttering, yet I know the sound.
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

Rom.
Neither, fair Saint, if either thee dislike.

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'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 murder 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.

Rom.
I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes,
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.

Jul.
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.

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,(15) ^note

Or if you think, I am too quickly won,
I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt wooe: 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 impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered.

Rom.
Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow,
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.

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.
Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?

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 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: Madam.] 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.
Love goes tow'rd love, as school-boys from their books;
But love from love, towards school with heavy looks.

Enter Juliet again.

Jul.
Hist! Romeo, hist! O for a falkner'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 lyes,
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 musick 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;
Remembring 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 further 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.

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 Friar's close Cell,
His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. [Exit.

Scene 3 SCENE changes to a Monastery. Enter Friar Lawrence, with a basket.

Fri.
The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night,
Check'ring the eastern clouds with streaks of light:
And darkness flecker'd, like a drunkard, reels
From forth day's path, and Titan's burning wheels.
Now ere the Sun advance his burning eye,
The day to chear, and night's dank dew to dry,
I must fill up 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 Grave, 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.
Nor 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 from true Birth, stumbling on abuse.
Virtue it self turns vice, being misapplied;
And vice sometime by action's dignified.
Within the infant rind of this small flower
Poison hath residence, and medicine 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. Enter Romeo.

Rom.
Good morrow, father.

Fri.
Benedicite!
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
Young son, it argues a distemper'd head
So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed:
Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,
And where care lodgeth, sleep will never lye;
But where unbruised youth with unstuft brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure,
Thou art uprouz'd by some distemp'rature;
Or if not so, then here I hit it right,
Our Romeo hath not been in bed to night.

Rom.
That last is true, the sweeter Rest was mine.

Fri.
God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline?

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

Fri.
That's my good son: but where hast thou been then?

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 physick lies;
I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo,
My intercession likewise steads my foe.

Fri.
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.

Fri.
Holy saint Francis, what a change is here?
Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? young mens love then lyes
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.

Jesu Maria! what a deal of brine
Hath washt 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 my antient 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 thy self, 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.
Thou chidd'st me oft for loving Rosaline.

Fri.
For doating, not for loving, Pupil mine.

Rom.
And bad'st me bury love.

Fri.
Not in a Grave,
To lay one in, another out to have.

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.

Fri.
Oh, she knew well,
Thy love did read by rote, and could not spell.
But come, young waverer, come and go with me,
In one respect I'll thy assistant be:
For this alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your houshold-rancour to pure love.

Rom.
O let us hence, I stand on sudden haste.

Fri.
Wisely and slow; they stumble, that run fast. [Exeunt. Scene 4 SCENE changes to the Street. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.

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 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.
A challenge, on my life.

Ben.
Romeo will answer it.

Mer.

Any man, that can write, may answer a letter.

Ben.

Nay, he will answer the letter's master, how he dares, being dar'd.

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 Tybalt?

Ben.

Why, what is Tybalt?

Mer.

More than prince of cats?—Oh, he's the couragious captain of compliments; he fights as you sing prick-songs, 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 antick, 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, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardonnez-moy's, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench. O, their bon's, their bon's!(16) ^note

Ben.

Here comes Romeo, 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 berime her: Dido a dowdy, Cleopatra a gipsie, Helen and Hero hildings and harlots: Thisbé a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bonjour; there's a French salutation to your French Slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.

Rom.

Good morrow to you Both: What counterfeit did I give you?

Mer.

The slip, Sir, the slip: can you not conceive?

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.

Rom.

Meaning, to curt'sie.

Mer.

Thou hast most kindly hit it.

Rom.

A most courteous exposition.

Mer.

Nay, I am the very pink of courtesie.

Rom.

Pink for flower.—

Mer.

Right.

Rom.

Why, then is my pump well flower'd.

Mer.

Sure wit—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.

Rom.
O single-sol'd jest,
Solely singular, for the singleness!

Mer.
Come between us, good Benvolio, my wit faints.

Rom.
Switch and spurs,
Switch and spurs, or I'll cry a match.

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 any thing, when thou wast not there for the goose.

Mer.

I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.

Rom.
Nay, good goose, bite not.

Mer.
Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting,
It is a most sharp sawce.

Rom.

And is it not well-serv'd in to a sweet goose?

Mer.

O, here's a wit of cheverel, 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, than groaning for love? Now thou art sociable; now art thou Romeo; now art thou what thou art, by art, as well as by nature; for this driveling love is like a great Natural, that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole.

Ben.

Stop there, stop there.

Mer.

Thou desirest me to stop in my tale, against the hair.

Ben.

Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large.

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.