Benvolio.
Benv.
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.
Merc.
Thou art like one of those Fellows, that
when he enters the Confines of a Tavern, claps me
his Sword upon the Table, and says, Heaven send me
no need of thee; and by the Operation of a second
Cup, draws it on the Drawer; when indeed, there is
no need.
Benv.
Am I like such a Fellow?
Merc.
Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy
Mood, as any in Italy; and as soon mov'd to be
moody; and as soon moody to be mov'd.
Benv.
And what to?
Merc.
Why, thou wilt quarrel with a Man that
has a Hair more or 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:
-- 29 --
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. Did'st thou not fall out with
thy Tailor for wearing his new Doublet before Easter?
With another, for tying his new Shoes with old Ribband?
And yet thou wilt tutor me for quarrelling!
Benv.
If 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.
Merc.
The Fee-simple? O simple!
Enter Tibalt.
Benv.
By my Head here comes a Capulet.
Merc.
By my Heels I care not.
Tib.
Gentlemen, Good-ev'n; a Word with one of
you.
Merc.
And but one Word with one of us? Couple
it with something; make it a Word and a Blow.
Tib.
You shall find me apt enough to that, Sir, if
you will give me occasion.
Merc.
Cou'd you not take some occasion, without
giving?
Tib.
Mercutio, thou consort'st with Romeo—
Merc.
Consort! what do'st thou make Minstrels
of us? If thou make Minstrels of us, then look to
hear nothing but Discords: Here's my Fiddle-stick;
here's that will make you dance. Zounds! Consort!
[Laying his Hand on his Sword.
Benv.
We talk here in the publick Haunt of Men;
Either withdraw into some private Place,
Or reason coldly of your Grievances,
Or else depart: Here all Eyes gaze on us.
Merc.
Men's Eyes were made to look, and let them gaze;
I will not budge for no Man's Pleasure, I.
Enter Romeo.
Tib.
Well, Peace be with you, Sir; here comes my Man.
Merc.
But I'll be hang'd, Sir, if he wears your Livery;
-- 30 --
Marry go first to Field, he'll be your Follower;
Your Worship, in that Sense, may call him Man.
Tib.
Romeo, the Hate I bear thee can afford
No better Terms 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, I am none:
Therefore, farewell: I see thou know'st me not.
Tib.
Boy, this shall not excuse the Injuries,
That thou hast done me; therefore turn, and draw.
Rom. (Stopping his Hand)
I do protest, I never injur'd thee,
But love thee better than thou can'st devise,
'Till thou shalt know the Reason of my Love:
And so, good Capulet, (whose Name I tender
As dearly as my own) be satisfied.
[Romeo walks apart.
Merc.
O calm, dishonourable, vile Submission!
Ah! La Stoccata carries it away.
Tybalt, you Rat-catcher, will you walk?
Tib.
What wou'd you have with me?
Merc.
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 Pilcher
by the Ears? Make haste, lest mine be about your
Ears ere it be out.
Tib.
I am for you.
[Drawing.
[Romeo returning, interposes.
Rom.
Gentle Mercutio, put thy Rapier up.
Merc.
Come, Sir, your Passado.
[Merc. and Tib. fight.
Rom.
Hold Tibalt, good Mercutio.
[Tibalt wounds Mercutio under Romeo's Arm, and goes out.
Merc.
I am hurt—
A Plague of both your Houses! I am sped:
Is he gone, and hath nothing?
Benv.
What, art thou hurt?
-- 31 --
Merc.
Aye. aye, a Scratch, a Scratch; marry 'tis
enough: Some one fetch a Surgeon.
Rom.
Courage Man, the Hurt cannot be much.
Merc.
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 pepper'd, I warrant, for this World;
a Plague of both your Houses! what 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 Arithmetick? Why the Devil came you between?
I was hurt under your Arm.
Rom.
I thought all for the best
Merc.
Help me into some House, Benvolio, or I
shall faint; a Plague of both your Houses, they have
made Worms-Meat of me: Curse your Houses.
[Exit. Mer. and Ben.
Rom.
This Gentleman the Prince's near Ally,
My worthy Friend hath got his mortal Hurt
In my behalf; my Reputation stain'd
With Tybalt's Slander; Tybalt, that an Hour
Hath been my Cousin: O sweet Juliet,
Thy Beauty hath made me effeminate,
And in my Temper soft'ned Valour's Steel.
Enter Benvolio.
Benv.
O, Romeo! Romeo! brave Mercutio's dead,
That gallant Spirit hath aspir'd the Clouds,
Which too untimely here did scorn the Earth.
Rom.
More Fates do yet on this black Day depend;
Or this begins the Woe, others must end.
Benv.
Here comes the furious Tybalt back again.
Rom.
Alive in Triumph? And Mercutio slain?
Away to Heaven respective Lenity,
And Fire-eyed Fury be my Conduct now.
Enter Tybalt.
Tybalt, receive the Villain back again,
That late thou gav'st me; brave Mercutio's Soul
Is but a little way above our Heads,
-- 32 --
Staying for thine to keep him Company:
Or thou, or I, or both, must go with him.
Tib.
Thou wretched Boy that did'st consort him here,
Shall with him hence
Rom.
This shall determine that.
[They fight: Tibalt falls.
Benv.
Romeo, away begone,
The Citizens are up, and Tibalt slain—
Stand not amaz'd; the Prince will doom thee dead,
If thou art taken; hence, begone, away.
Rom.
O, I am Fortune's Fool.
[Ex. Romeo.
Enter Prince and Paris, with Attendants.
Prin.
Where are the vile Beginners of this Brawl?
Benv.
Most noble Prince I can discover all
The unlucky Manage of this fatal Fray;
There lies the Man slain by young Romeo,
That slew thy Kinsman brave Mercutio.
Prin.
Benvolio, who began this?
Benv.
Tibalt here slain, whom Romeo's Hand did slay;
Romeo still spoke him fair, bid him bethink
How nice the Quarrel was, and urg'd withal
Your high Displeasure: All this utter'd
With gentle Breath, calm Look, Knees humbly bow'd,
Could not make Truce with the unruly Spleen
Of Tibalt, 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 Tibalt, whose Dexterity
Retorts it: Romeo he cries aloud
Hold Friends, Friends part; and swifter than his Tongue
His agil Arm beats down their fatal Points,
And 'twixt them rushes; underneath whose Arm
An envious Thrust from Tibalt hit the Life
Of stout Mercutio, and then Tibalt fled:
-- 33 --
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 Tibalt slain,
And as he fell did Romeo turn to fly.
Prin.
And for that Offence
Immediately we do exile him hence:
I will be deaf to Pleading and Excuses,
Nor Tears nor Prayers shall purchase our Abuses,
Therefore use none; let Romeo hence, in haste,
When in Verona found, that Hour's his last:
Bear hence this Body, and attend our Will.
Mercy but Murders, pardoning those that Kill.
[Exeunt.
Theophilus Cibber [1748], Romeo and Juliet, a tragedy, Revis'd, and Alter'd from Shakespear, By Mr. Theophilus Cibber. First Reviv'd (in September, 1744,) at the Theatre in the Hay-Market: Now Acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane... To which is added, A Serio-Comic Apology, For Part of the Life of Mr. Theophilus Cibber, Comedian. Written by Himself... Interspersed with Memoirs and Anecdotes, relating to Stage-Management, Theatrical Revolutions, &c. Also, Cursory Observations on some principal Players... Concluding with a Copy of Verses, call'd, The Contrite Comedian's Confession (Printed for C. Corbett... and G. Woodfall [etc.], London) [word count] [S37400].
