Jul.
The Clock stroke Nine, when I did send the Nurse:
In half an Hour she promised to return.
Perchance she cannot meet him—That's not so—
Oh she is Lame: Love's Heralds should be Thoughts,
Which ten times faster glides than the Sun-beams,
Driving back Shadows over lowring Hills.
Therefore do nimble Pinion'd Doves draw Love,
And therefore hath the Wind-swift Cupid Wings.
Now is the Sun upon the highmost Hill
Of this day's journey, and from nine 'till twelve—
Ay three long Hours—and yet she is not come;
Had she Affections and warm Youthful Blood,
She'd be as swift in motion as a Ball,
My Words would bandy her to my sweet Love,
And his to me;
But old Folks, many feign as they were Dead,
Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as Lead. Enter Nurse.
O God, she comes. O honey Nurse, what News?
Hast thou met with him? Send thy Man away.

Nur.
Peter, stay at the Gate.

Jul.
Now good sweet Nurse—
O Lord, why look'st thou sad?
Tho' News be sad, yet tell them merrily,
If good, thou sham'st the Musick of sweet News.
By playing it to me with so sower a Face.

Nur.
I am a weary, give me leave a while;
Fy, how my Bones ake, what a Jaunt have I had?

Jul.
I would thou hadst my Bones, and I thy News:
Nay come, I pray thee speak—Good Nurse speak.

Nur.
Jesu! what haste? can you not stay a while?
Do you not see how I am out of Breath?

Jul.
How art thou out of Breath, when thou hast Breath
To say to me, that thou art out of Breath?
The Excuse that thou dost make in this delay,
Is longer than the Tale thou dost excuse.
Is thy News good or bad? Answer to that,
Say either, and I'll stay the Circumstance:
Let me be satisfied, is't good or bad?

Nur.

Well, you have made a simple Choice; you know not how to chuse a Man: Romeo? no not he, though his Face be better than any Man's, yet his Legs excell all Mens, and for a Hand and a Foot, and a Baw-dy, tho' they be not to be talk'd on, yet they are past compare. He is not the Flower of Courtesie, but I warrant him as gentle a Lamb—Go thy ways Wench, serve God: What, have you dined at home?

Jul.
No, no—But all this did I know before:
What says he of our Marriage? What of that?

Nur.
Lord how my Head akes! what a Head have I?
It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.
My Back a t'other side—O my Back, my Back:
Beshrew your Heart, for sending me about,
To catch my Death with jaunting up and down.

Jul.
I'faith I am sorry that thou art so ill,
Sweet, sweet, sweet Nurse, tell me what says my Love?

Nur.
Your Love says like an honest Gentleman,
And a courteous, and a kind, and a handsom,
And I warrant a virtuous—where is your Mother?

Jul.
Where is my Mother? Why she is within,
Here should she be? How odly thou reply'st!
Your Love says like an honest Gentleman:
Where is my Mother?—

Nur.
O God's Lady dear,
Are you so hot? marry come up I trow,
Is this the Poultis for my aking Bones?

Hence-forward, do your Messages your self.

Jul.
Here's such a coil; come, what says Romeo?

Nur.
Have you got leave to go to shrift to Day?

Jul.
I have.

Nur.
Then hie you hence to Friar Lawrence's Cell,
There stays a Husband to make you a Wife.
Now comes the wanton Blood up in your Cheeks,
They'll be in Scarlet straight at any News:
Hie you to Church, I must another way,
To fetch a Ladder, by the which your Love
Must climb a Bird's Nest soon, when it is dark.
I am the drudge and toil in your Delight,
But you shall bear the Burthen soon at Night.
Go, I'll to Dinner, hie you to the Cell.

Jul.
Hie to high Fortune; honest Nurse farewel. [Exeunt.

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