Mountague.
Moun.
Thou Villain, Capulet—Hold me not, let me go.
La. Moun.
Thou shalt not stir a foot to seek a Foe.
Enter Prince with Attendants.
Prin.
Rebellious Subjects, Enemies to Peace,
Prophaners of this Neighbour-stained Steel—
Will they not hear? What ho, you Men, you Beasts,
That quench the Fire of your pernicious Rage,
With purple Fountains issuing from your Veins:
On pain of Torture, from these bloody Hands
Throw your mistemper'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,
And made Verona's antient Citizens
Cast by their grave beseeming Ornaments,
-- 2078 --
To wield old Partisans, in Hands as old,
Cankred with Peace, to part your Cankred-hate;
If ever you disturb 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,
To old Free-town, our common Judgment-place:
Once more, on pain of Death, all Men depart.
[Exeunt Prince and Capulet, &c.
La. Moun.
Who set this ancient Quarrel new abroach?
Speak, Nephew, were you by when it began?
Ben.
Here were the Servants of your Adversary,
And yours, close fighting, e'er 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 swong about his Head, and cut the Winds,
Who nothing hurt withal, hiss'd him in Scorn;
While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,
Came more and more, and fought on part and part,
'Till the Prince came, who parted either part.
La. Moun.
O where is Romeo, saw you him to Day?
Right glad am I, he was not at this Fray.
Ben.
Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd Sun
Peer'd forth the golden Window of the East,
A troubled Mind drave me to walk abroad,
Where underneath the Grove of Sycamour,
That Westward rooteth from this City side,
So early walking did I see you Son;
Towards him I made, but he was ware of me,
And stole into the Covert of the Wood;
I measuring his Affections by my own,
Which then most sought, where most might not be found,
Being one too many by my weary self,
Pursued my Humour, not pursuing his,
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,
Adding to Clouds, more Clouds, with his deep sighs:
But all so soon as the all-cheering Sun,
-- 2079 --
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 my self, and many other Friends;
But he, his own Affections 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,
E'er he can spread his sweet Leaves to the Air,
Or dedicate his Beauty to the same.
Could we but learn from whence his Sorrows grow,
We would as willingly give Cure, as know.
Enter Romeo.
Ben.
See where he comes: so please you step aside,
I'll know his Grievance, or be much deny'd.
Moun.
I would thou wert so happy by thy stay,
To hear true Shrift. Come, Madam, let's away.
[Exeunt.
Ben.
Good Morrow, Cousin.
Rom.
Is the day so young?
Ben.
But new struck nine.
Rom.
Ah me, sad hours seem long.
Was that my Father that went hence so fast?
Ben.
It was: What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?
Rom.
Not having that, which having, makes them short.
Ben.
In Love?
Rom.
Out—
Ben.
Of Love?
Rom.
Out of her Favour, where I am in Love.
Ben.
Alas, that Love so gentle in his view,
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof.
Rom.
Alas, that Love, whose view is muffled still,
Should without Eyes, see path-ways to his will:
-- 2080 --
Where shall we dine?—O me!—what fray was here?—
Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all:
Here's much to do with Hate, but more with Love:
Why then, O brawling Love! O loving Hate!
O any thing of nothing first create:
O heavy Lightness, serious Vanity,
Mishapen Chaos of well-seeming Forms,
Feather of Lead, bright Smoke, cold Fire, sick Health,
Still-waking Sleep, that is not what it is:
This Love feel I, that feel no Love in this.
Dost thou not laugh?
Ben.
No Coz, I rather weep.
Rom.
Good Heart, at what?
Ben.
At thy good Heart's Oppression.
Rom.
Why such is Love's Transgression.
Griefs of mine own lye heavy in my Breast;
Which thou wilt propagate to have it prest
With more of thine, this Love that thou hast shewn
Doth add more Grief to too much of mine own.
Love is a smoke made of the fume of Sighs,
Being purg'd, a Fire sparkling in Lovers Eyes,
Being vext, a Sea nourish'd with loving Tears;
What is it else? a madness most discreet,
A choaking Gall, and a preserving Sweet:
Farewel, my Coz.
[Going.
Ben.
Soft, I will go along.
And if you leave me so, you do me wrong.
Rom.
But I have lost my self, I am not here,
This is not Romeo, he's some other where.
Ben.
Tell me in sadness, who is that you love?
Rom.
What, shall I groan and tell thee?
Ben.
Groan? why no; but sadly tell me, who.
Rom.
A sick Man in good sadness makes his will—
O, word ill urg'd to one that is so ill—
In sadness, Cousin, I do love a Woman.
Ben.
I aim'd so near, when I suppos'd you lov'd.
Rom.
A right good Marks-man, and she's fair I love.
Ben.
A right fair mark, fair Coz, is soonest hit.
Rom.
Well in that hit you miss, she'll not be hit
With Cupid's Arrow; she hath Dian's Wit:
-- 2081 --
And in strong proof of Chastity well arm'd;
From Love's weak childish Bow, she lives uncharm'd.
She will not stay the Siege of loving Terms,
Nor bide th' Encounter of assailing Eyes,
Nor ope her Lap to Saint-seducing Gold:
O she is rich in Beauty, only poor,
That when she dies, with Beauty dies her store.
Ben.
Then she hath sworn, that she will still live chaste?
Rom.
She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste.
For Beauty starv'd with her severity,
Cuts Beauty off from all Posterity.
She is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair,
To merit Bliss by making me despair:
She hath forsworn to love, and in that Vow
Do I live dead, that live to tell it now.
Ben.
Be rul'd by me, forget to think of her.
Rom.
O teach me how I should forget to think.
Ben.
By giving liberty unto thine Eyes;
Examine other Beauties.
Rom.
'Tis the way to call hers (exquisite) in question more.
Those happy Masks that kiss fair Ladies Brows,
Being black, put us in mind they hide the fair,
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,
Where I may read who past that passing fair.
Farewel, thou canst not teach me to forget.
Ben.
I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.
[Exeunt.
Enter Capulet, Paris and Servant.
Cap.
Mountague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard, I think,
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 fourteen Years,
Let two more Summers wither in their Pride,
E'er we may think her ripe to be a Bride.
-- 2082 --
Par.
Younger than she are happy Mothers made.
Cap.
And too soon marr'd are those so early made:
Earth up hath swallowed all my hopes but she,
She is the hopeful Lady of my Earth:
But woo her, gentle Paris, get her Heart,
My will to her consent is but a part,
And she agree, within her scope of choice
Lies my consent, and fair according Voice:
This Night, I hold an old accustom'd Feast,
Whereto I have invited many a Guest,
Such as I love, and you among the store,
Once more, most welcome makes my number more:
At my poor House, look to behold this Night,
Earth-treading Stars that make dark Heaven light,
Such comfort as do lusty young Men feel,
When well-apparell'd April on the heel
Of limping Winter treads, even such delight
Among fresh Female buds shall you this Night
Inherit at my House; hear all, all see,
And like her most, whose merit most shall be:
Which one more view, of many, mine being one,
May stand in number, though in reck'ning none.
Come, go with me. Go, Sirrah, trudge about,
Through fair Verona, find those Persons out,
Whose Names are written there, and to them say,
My House and Welcome on their pleasure stay.
[Ex. Cap. Par.
Ser.
Find them out whose Names are written here? It is
written, that the Shooe-maker should meddle with his Yard,
and the Tailor with his Last, the Fisher with his Pencil, and
the Painter with his Nets. But I am sent to find those Persons
whose Names are writ, and can never find what Names
the writing Person hath here writ, (I must to the Learned)
in good time.
Enter Benvolio and Romeo.
Ben.
Tut Man, one Fire burns out another's burning,
One pain is lessen'd by another's anguish;
Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning,
One desperate Grief cures with another's languish:
Take thou some new Infection to the Eye,
And the rank Poison of the old will die.
-- 2083 --
Rom.
Your Plantan Leaf is excellent for that.
Ben.
For what, I pray thee?
Rom.
For your broken Shin.
Ben.
Why, Romeo, art thou mad?
Rom.
Not mad, but bound more than a mad Man is:
Shut up in Prison, kept without my Food,
Whipt and tormented; and—Good-e'en, good Fellow.
Ser.
God gi' Good-e'en: I pray, Sir, can you read?
Rom.
Ay, mine own Fortune in my Misery.
Ser.
Perhaps you have learn'd it without Book:
But, I pray, can you read any thing you see?
Rom.
Ay, if I know the Letters and the Language.
Ser.
Ye say honestly, rest you merry.
Rom.
Stay Fellow, I can read.
He reads the Letter.
Signior Martino, and his Wife and Daughter: Count Anselm
and his beauteous Sisters; the Lady Widow of Vitruvio,
Signior Placentio, and his lovely Nieces; Mercutio and
his Brother Valentine; mine Uncle Capulet, his Wife and
Daughters; my fair Niece Rosaline, Livia, Signior Valentio,
and his Cousin Tybalt; Lucio, and the lovely Helena.
A fair Assembly; whither should they come?
Ser.
Up.
Rom.
Whither? to Supper?
Ser.
To our House.
Rom.
Whose House?
Ser.
My Master's.
Rom.
Indeed I should have askt you that before.
Ser.
Now I'll tell you without asking. My Master is the
great rich Capulet, and if you be not of the House of Mountagues,
I pray come and crush a Cup of Wine. Rest you
merry.
[Exit.
Ben.
At this same ancient Feast of Capulets,
Sups the fair Rosaline, whom thou so lovest;
With all the admired Beauties of Verona:
Go thither, and with unattainted Eye,
Compare her Face with some that I shall shew,
And I will make thee think thy Swan a Crow.
-- 2084 --
Rom.
When the devout Religion of mine Eye
Maintains such Falsehood, then turn Tears to Fire;
And these who often drown'd could never die,
Transparent Hereticks be burnt for Liars.
One fairer than my Love! the all-seeing Sun
Ne'er saw her Match, since first the World begun.
Ben.
Tut, tut, you saw her fair, none else being by,
Her self pois'd with her self in either Eye:
But in those Chrystal Scales, let there be weigh'd,
Your Ladies love against some other Maid,
That I will shew you, shining at this Feast,
And she'll shew scant well, that now shews best.
Rom.
I'll go along, no such sight to be shown,
But to rejoice in splendor of mine own.
SCENE II.
Capulet's House.
Enter Lady Capulet, and Nurse.
La. Cap.
Nurse, where's my Daughter? call her forth
to me.
Nurse.
Now by my Maiden-head, at twelve Years old, I
bad her come; what Lamb, what Lady-bird, God forbid.—
Where's this Girl? what, Juliet?
Enter 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 remembred
me, thous' hear my Counsel: Thou knowest my
Daughter's of a pretty Age.
Nurse.
Faith, I can tell her Age unto an Hour.
La. Cap.
She's not fourteen.
Nurse.
I'll lay fourteen of my Teeth,
And yet to my Teeth be it spoken,
I have but four, she's not fourteen;
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 fourteen. Susan and she, God
rest all Christian Souls, were of an Age. Well, Susan is with
-- 2085 --
God, she was too good for me. But as I said, on Lammas-Eve
at Night shall she be fourteen, that shall she, marry,
I remember it well. 'Tis since the Earthquake now eleven
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
Worm-wood to my Dug, sitting in the Sun under the Dove-House
Wall, my Lord and you were then at Mantua—nay,
do bear a Brain. But as I said, when it did taste the Worm-wood
on the Nipple of my Dug, and felt it hitter, pretty
Fool, to see it teachy, and fall out with the Dug. Shake,
Quoth the Dove-house—'twas no need I trow to bid me
trudge; and since that time it is eleven Years, for then she
could stand alone, nay, byth' Rood she could have run, and
wadled all about; for even the Day before she broke her
Brow, and then my Husband, God be 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, Juliet? And by my Holy-dam,
the pretty Wretch left Crying, and said, Ay; to see now how
a Jest shall come about. I warrant, and I should live a
thousand Years, I never should forget it: Wilt thou not,
Juliet, quoth he? and pretty Fool, it stinted, and said, Ay.
La. Cap.
Enough of this, I pray thee hold thy Peace.
Nurse.
Yes, Madam, yet I cannot chuse but laugh, to
think it should leave crying, and say, Ay; and yet I warrant
it had upon its Brow a bump as big as a young Cockrels
Stone: A perilous knock, and it cried bitterly. Yea, quoth
my Husband, fall'st upon thy Face? thou wilt fall backward
when thou comest to Age; wilt thou not, Juliet?
It stinted, and said, Ay.
Jul.
And stint thee too, I pray thee, Nurse, say I.
Nurse.
Peace, I have done: God mark thee to his Grace,
thou wast the prettiest Babe that e'er I nurst, and I might
live to see thee married once, I have my wish.
La. Cap.
Marry, that marry is the very Theam
I came to talk of; tell me, Daughter Juliet,
How stands your disposition to be married?
Jul.
'Tis an hour that I dream not of.
Nurse.
An hour, were not I thine only Nurse, I would
say that thou hadst suck'd Wisdom from thy Teat.
-- 2086 --
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 saith a very Flower.
La. Ca.
What say you, can you love the Gentleman?
This Night you shall behold him at our Feast,
Read o'er the Volume of young Paris's Face,
And find Delight writ there with Beauty's Pen;
Examine every several Lineament,
And see how one, another lends Content;
And what obscur'd in this fair Volume lyes,
Find written in the Margent of his Eyes.
This precious Book of Love, this unbound Lover,
To beautifie him, only lacks a Cover.
The Fish lives in the Sea, and 'tis much Pride
For fair without, the fair within to hide:
That Book in manies Eyes doth share the Glory,
That in Gold Clasps locks in the golden Story;
So shall you share all that he doth possess,
By having him, making your self no less.
Nurse.
No less! nay bigger; Women grow by Men.
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 endart mine Eye,
Than your Consent gives Strength to make it fly.
Enter a Servant.
Ser.
Madam, the Guests are come, Supper serv'd up, you
call'd, my young Lady ask'd for, the Nurse curst in the
Pantry, and every thing in extremity; I must hence to
wait, I beseech you follow straight.
[Exit.
La. Cap.
We follow thee. Juliet, the County stays.
Nurse.
Go, Girl, seek happy Nights to happy Days.
[Exeunt.
-- 2087 --
Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six other Maskers, Torch-bearers.
Rom.
What, shall this Speech be spoke to our excuse?
Or shall we on without Apology?
Ben.
The date is out of such prolixity,
We'll have no Cupid hood-wink'd with a Scarf,
Bearing a Tartar's painted Bow of Lath,
Scaring the Ladies like a Crow-keeper.
But let them measure us by what they will,
We'll measure them a Measure and be gone.
Rom.
Give me a Torch, I am not for this ambling.
Being but heavy, I will bear the Light.
Mer.
Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.
Rom.
Not I, believe me, you have dancing Shoes
With nimble Soles, I have a Sole of Lead,
So stakes me to the Ground I cannot move.
Mer.
You are a Lover, borrow Cupid's Wings,
And soar with them above a common bound.
Rom.
I am too sore impierced with his Shaft,
To soar with his light Feathers, and to bound:
I cannot bound a pitch above dull Woe;
Under Love's heavy burden do I sink.
Mer.
And to sink in it, should you burden Love,
Too great oppression for a tender thing.
Rom.
Is Love a tender thing? it is too rough,
Too rude, too boisterous, it pricks like Thorn.
Mer.
If Love be rough with you, be rough with Love,
Prick Love for pricking, and you Love beat down:
Give me a Case to put my Visage in,
A Visor for a Visor; what care I
What curious Eye doth quote Deformities,
Here are the Beetle-brows shall blush for me.
Ben.
Come knock and enter, and no sooner in,
But every Man betake him to his Legs.
Rom.
A Torch for me, let Wantons, light of Heart,
Tickle the senseless Rushes with their Heels;
For I am proverb'd with a Grand-sire Phrase;
I'll be a Candle-lighter, and look on,
The Game was ne'er so fair, and I am Done.
Mer.
Tut, Dun's the Mouse, the Constables own word;
If thou art Dun, we'll draw thee from the Mire;
-- 2088 --
Or, save your Reverence, Love, wherein thou stickest
Up to the Ears: Come, we burn day-light, ho.
Rom.
Nay, that's not so.
Mer.
I mean, Sir, we delay.
We waste our Lights in vain, lights, lights, by day;
Take our good meaning, for our Judgment fits
Five things in that, e'er once in our fine Wits.
Rom.
And we mean well in going to this Mask;
But 'tis no wit to go.
Mer.
Why, may one ask?
Rom.
I dreamt a Dream to Night.
Mer.
And so did I.
Rom.
Well; what was yours?
Mer.
That Dreamers often Lie.
Rom.
In Bed asleep; while they do dream things true.
Mer.
O then I see Queen Mab hath been with you:
She is the Fairies Mid-wife, and she comes in shape no bigger
than an Agat-stone on the Fore-finger of an Alderman,
drawn with a teem of little Atomies, over Mens Noses as
they lye asleep: Her Waggon Spokes made of long Spinners
Legs; the Cover, of the Wings of Grashoppers; her
Trace of the smallest Spider's Web; her Collars of the
Moonshine's watry beams; her Whip of Cricket's bone;
the Lash of film; her Waggoner a small gray-coated Gnat,
not half so big as a round little Worm, prickt from the lazy
Finger of a Woman. Her Chariot is an empty Hazel-Nut,
made by the Joyner 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 Countries Knees, that dream on
Cursies strait: O'er Lawyers Fingers, who strait dream on
Fees: O'er Ladies Lips, who strait on Kisses dream, which
oft the angry Mab with Blisters plagues, because their breaths
with Sweet-meats tainted are. Sometimes she gallops
o'er a Courtier's Nose, and then dreams he of smelling
out a Suit: And sometimes comes she with a Tith-pigs Tail,
tickling a Parson's Nose as he lies asleep; then he dreams
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
-- 2089 --
he starts and wakes, and being thus frighted, swears a Prayer
or two, and sleeps again. This is that very Mab that plats
the Manes of Horses in the Night, and bakes the Elf-locks
in foul sluttish Hairs, which once intangled, much Misfortunes
bodes.
This is the Hag, when Maids lye on their Backs,
That presses them, and learns them first to bear,
Making them Women of good Carriage:
This is she—
Rom.
Peace, peace, Mercutio, 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 Phantasie,
Which is as thin of substance as the Air,
And more unconstant than the Wind; who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the North,
And being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
Turning his side to the Dew-dropping South.
Ben.
This Wind you talk of, blows us from our selves;
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
Rom.
I fear too early; for my mind misgives,
Some consequence still hanging in the Stars,
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this Night's Revels, and expire the term
Of a despised Life clos'd in my Breast,
By some vile forfeit of untimely death;
But he that hath the steerage of my course,
Direct my Suit: On, lusty Gentlemen.
Ben.
Strike, Drum.
They march about the Stage, and Servants come forth with their Napkins.
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 ye 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-cupboard,
look to the Plate: Good thou, save me a piece of
March-pane; and as thou lovest me, let the Porter let in
-- 2090 --
Susan Grindstone, and Nell, Anthony, 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.
[Exeunt.
Enter all the Guests and Ladies to the Maskers.
1 Cap.
Welcome, Gentlemen;
Ladies that have their Toes
Unplagu'd with Corns, will walk about with you.
Ah me, my Mistresses, which of you all
Will now deny to Dance? She that makes dainty,
She, I'll swear, hath Corns; Am I come near ye now?
Welcome Gentlemen, I have 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:
You are all welcome, Gentlemen; come, Musicians, play.
[Musick plays, and they Dance.
A Hall, Hall; give room, and foot it, Girls:
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 daies:
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 is 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,
-- 2091 --
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 blessed my rude Hand.
Did my Heart love till now; forswear it Sight?
For I ne'er saw true Beauty 'till this Night.
Tib.
This by his Voice should be a Mountague.
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,
Te strike him dead, I hold it not a sin.
Cap.
Why, how now, Kinsman,
Wherefore storm you so?
Tib.
Uncle, this is a Mountague, our Foe:
A Villain that is hither come in spight,
To scorn at our Solemnity this Night.
Cap.
Young Romeo, is it?
Tib.
'Tis he, 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 the 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 of a Feast.
Tib.
It fits, when such a Villain is a Guest.
I'll not endure him.
Cap.
He shall be indur'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 the Guests:
You will set Cock-a-hoop? You'll be the Man?
Tib.
Why, Uncle, 'tis a shame.
Cap.
Go to, go to.
-- 2092 --
You are a saucy Boy—'tis 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, for shame;
I'll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my Hearts.
Tib.
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 prophane with my unworthiest Hand,
[To Juliet.
This holy Shrine, the gentle sin is this,
My Lips two blushing Pilgrims ready stand,
To smooth that rough touch with a tender Kiss.
Jul.
Good Pilgrim,
You do wrong your Hand too much,
Which mannerly Devotion shews in this,
For Saints have Hands—the Pilgrim's Hand 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,
Though grant for Prayers sake.
Rom.
Then move not while my Prayers effect do take:
Thus from my Lips, by thine my sin is purg'd.
[Kissing her.
Jul.
Then have my Lips the sin that they have took.
Rom.
Sin from my Lips! O trespass sweetly urg'd:
Give me my sin again.
Jul.
You kiss by th' Book.
Nur.
Madam, your Mother craves a word with you.
Rom.
What is her Mother?
Nur.
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 talk withal:
I tell you, he that can lay hold of her,
Shall have the Chinks.
Rom.
Is she a Capulet?
O dear Account! My Life is my Foe's debt.
-- 2093 --
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 yond' Gentleman?
Nur.
The Son and Heir of old Tyberio.
Jul.
What's he that now is going out of Door?
Nur.
Marry, that I think to be young Petruchio.
Jul.
What's he that follows here, that would not dance?
Nur.
I know not.
Jul.
Go ask his Name. If he be Married,
My Grave is like to be my wedding Bed.
Nur.
His Name is Romeo, and a Mountague,
The only Son of our 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.
Nur.
What's this? what's this?
Jul.
A Rhime I learn'd even now
Of one I danc'd withal.
[One calls within, Juliet.
Nur.
Anon, anon:
Come, let's away, the Strangers all are gone,
[Exeunt.
Charles Gildon [1709–1710], The works of Mr. William Shakespear; in six [seven] volumes. Adorn'd with Cuts. Revis'd and Corrected, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By N. Rowe ([Vol. 7] Printed for E. Curll... and E. Sanger [etc.], London) [word count] [S11401].
