Ben.
Tut, man! one fire burns out another's burning,
  One ^note 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 thy eye ^note,
And the rank poison of the old will die.

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 den, good fellow.

Ser.
God gi' go' den. I pray, sir, can you read?

Rom.
Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.

Ser.
Perhaps, you have learned 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. [reads.

Signior Martino, and his wife, and daughter ^note; County Anselme, 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 lively Helena.

Ser.
Up.

Rom.
Whither?14Q1390

Ser.
To our house.

Rom.
Whose house?

Ser.
My master's.

Rom.
Indeed, I should have ask'd 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 the Mountagues,
I pray you, come; and crush ^note a cup of wine.
Rest you merry. [Exit.

Ben.
At this same ancient feast of Capulet's
Sups the fair Rosaline, whom thou so lov'st; ^note

With all the admired beauties of Verona:
Go thither; and, with unattainted eye,
Compare her face with some that I shall show ^note,
And I will make thee ^note think thy swan a crow.

Rom.
When the devout religion of mine eye
  Maintains such falshood, then turn tears to fires ^note!
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 ^note saw her fair, none else being by,
Herself poiz'd with herself in either eye:
But in those crystal ^note scales let there be weigh'd
Your lady love ^note against some other maid
That I will show ^note you, shining at this feast,
And she shall scant shew well ^note, that now shews best. ^note

Rom.
I'll go along, no such sight to be shown,
But to rejoice in splendor of mine own. [Exeunt. SCENE III. A Room in Capulet's House. Enter Lady Capulet, and Nurse.

L. C.
Nurse, where's my daughter?14Q1391 call her forth me.

Nur.
Now, by my maidenhead,—at twelve year ^note old,—
I bad ^note her come:—What, lamb! what lady-bird!—
God forbid! where's this girl?—what, Juliet! Enter Juliet.

Jul.
How now? who calls?

Nur.
Your mother.

Jul.
Madam, I am here;
What is your will?

L. C.
This is the matter:—Nurse, give leave a while,
We must talk in secret. Nurse, came back again;

I have remember'd me, thou shalt hear ^note our counsel.
Thou know'st, my daughter's of a pretty age:

Nur.
'Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.

L. C.
She's not fourteen.

Nur.
I'll lay fourteen o' my teeth,—
And yet, to my teeth be ^note it spoken, I have but four,—
She's not fourteen: How long is't now to Lammas-tide?

L. C.
A fortnight, and odd days.

Nur.
Even or odd, of all days i' 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 God;
She was too good for me: But, as I said,
On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen;
That shall ^note she, marry; I remember it well.
'Tis since the earth-quake now eleven years;
And she was wean'd,—I never shall forget it,—
Of all the days o' the year, upon that day:
For I had then lay'd wormwood to my dug,
Sitting i' the sun under the dove-house wall,
My lord and you were then at Mantua;
Nay, I do bear a brain: but, as I said,
When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple
Of my dug, and felt it bitter, pretty fool!
To see it teachy, and fall out wi' 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, by the rood,
She could have run and waddl'd all about.
For even the day before she broke her brow:
And then my husband—God be with 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, Juli' ^note? and, by my holy-dam,
The pretty wretch left crying, and said—Ay:
To see now how a jest shall come about!
I warr'nt, an I should live ^note a thousand years,
I never should forget it; Wilt thou not, Juli' ^note? quoth he:
And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said—Ay.

L. C.
Enough of this; I pray thee ^note, hold thy peace.

Nur.
Yes, madam; Yet I cannot choose but laugh,
To think it should leave crying, and say—Ay:
And yet, I warr'nt, it had upon ^note it's brow
A bump ^note as big as a young cock'rel's stone;
A par'lous knock; and it cry'd bitterly.
Yea, quoth my husband, fall'st upon thy face?
Thou wilt fall backward, when thou com'st to age;
Wilt thou not, Juli' ^note? it stinted, and said—Ay.

Jul.
And stint thou too, I pray thee ^note, nurse, say I.

Nur.
Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace!
Thou wast the ^note prettiest babe that e'er I nurs'd:
An I might live to see thee marry'd once,
I have my wish.

L. C.
Marry, that marry is the very theme
I came to talk of:—Tell me, daughter Juliet ^note,
How stands your disposition ^{note note} to be marry'd?

Jul.
It is an hour ^note that I dream not of.

Nur.
An hour ^note! were not I thine ^note only nurse,
I'd say, thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat.

L. C.
Well, think of marriage now; younger than you,
Here in Verona ^note, 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. ^note

Nur.
A man, young lady! lady, such a man,
As all the world—Why, he's a man of wax.

L. C.
Verona's summer hath not such a flower.

Nur.
Nay, he's a flower; in faith, a very flower.

L. C.
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' face,
And find delight writ there with beauty's pen;
Examine every several lineament ^note,
And see how one another lends content;
And what obscur'd in this fair volume lies,
Find written in the margin of his eyes.
This precious book of love, this unbound lover,
To beautify 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 many's eyes ^note 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 yourself no less.

Nur.
No less? nay, bigger; women grow by men.

L. C.
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 ^note 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 curs'd in the pantry, and every thing in extremity. I must hence to

wait; I beseech you, follow strait.

L. C.
We follow thee.—Juliet, the county stays.

Nur.
Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days. [Exeunt. ACT II. SCENE I. A Street. Enter, in masking Habits, Torches and a Drum preceding them, Mercutio, Romeo, Benvolio, and Others.

Rom.
What, shall this speech be spoke for 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 soul of ^note 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 enpearced ^note with his shaft,
To soar with his light feathers; and so bound, ^note
I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe:
Under love's heavy burthen do I sink.

Mer.
And, to ^note sink in it, should you burthen love;
Too great oppression for a tender thing.

Rom.
Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,
Too rude, too boist'rous; and it pricks like thorn.

Mer.
If love be rough with you, be rough with love;
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.—
Give me a case to put my visage in: [taking one from an Att.
A visor for a visor! [throwing it away.] what care I,
What curious eye doth quote ^note deformities?
Here are the beetle-brows, shall blush for me.

Ben.
Come, knock, and enter; and no sooner in,
But every man betake ^note 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'd14Q1392 with a grandsire phrase,—
I'll be a candle-holder, and look on,—
The game was ne'er so fair, and I am dun ^note.

Mer.
Tut! dun's the mouse, the constable's own word:
If thou art dun, we'll draw thee from the mire,
Or (save your reverence ^note) love, wherein thou stick'st
Up to the ears.—Come, we burn day-light, ho.

Rom.
Nay ^note, that's not so.

Mer.
I mean, sir, in delay ^note;
We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day ^note:
Take our good meaning; for our judgment sits
Five times in that, ere 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 ^note, while they do dream things true.

Mer.
O, then, I see, queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fancy's ^note midwife14Q1393; and she comes
In shape no bigger than an ^note agat stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies ^note
Over men's noses as they lie asleep:
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs;
The cover, of the wings of grass-hoppers;
Her traces ^note, of the smallest spider's web;
Her collars ^note, of the moon-shine's watry beams;
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film: ^note
Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid: ^note
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
Made by the joyner squirrel, or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coach-makers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love:
O'er courtiers' ^note knees, that dream on curtsies straight:
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream ^note on fees:
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream;
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths ^note with sweet-meats tainted are:
Sometime ^note she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, ^note
And then dreams ^note he of smelling out a suit:
And sometime comes she with a ^note tithe-pig's tail,
Tickling a parson's ^note nose as a' lies ^note asleep,
Then he dreams of another benefice:
Sometime 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 ear ^note; at which 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 cakes ^note the elf-locks ^note in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once untangl'd much misfortune bodes ^note.
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them, and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage.
And 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 fantasy;
Which is as thin of substance as the air;
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to ^note the dew-dropping south.

Ben.
This wind, you talk of, blows us from ourselves;
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.

Rom.
I fear, too early: for my mind misgives,
Some consequence, yet 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 ^note of my course,

Direct my suit ^note!—On, lusty gentlemen.

Ben.
Strike, drum. [Drum. Exeunt. SCENE II. Hall in Capulet's House. Musicians waiting. Servants pass to and fro, setting the Room in Order.

1. S.

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

2. S.

When good manners shall lie all ^note in one or two men's hands, and they unwash'd too, 'tis a foul thing.

1. S.

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 lov'st ^note me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone, and Nell.—Antony! Potpan!14Q1394

3. S. ^note

Ay, boy; ready.

1. S.

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

2. S.

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

Cap.
Welcome, gentlemen! ladies, that have their toes
Unplagu'd with corns, will have a bout ^note with you:—
Ah ha ^note, my mistresses ^note! 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 ^note?—
Welcome you too, gentlemen! I have seen the day,
That I have worn a visor; and could tell
A whisp'ring tale in a fair lady's ear,
Such as would please;—'tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone:—
You are welcome, gentlemen.—Come, musicians, play.— [Musick. Dance forming.

A ^note hall, a hall! give room, and foot it, girls.—
More light, ye knaves ^note; 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; [drawing him a Chair.
For you and I are past our dancing days:
How long is't now, since last yourself and I
Were in a mask? ^note

Cou.
By'r-lady, thirty years.

Cap.
What, man! 'tis not so much, 'tis not so much:
'Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio ^note,
Come pentecost as quickly as it will,
Some five and twenty years; and then we mask'd.

Cou.
'Tis more, 'tis more: his son is elder, sir;
His son is thirty.

Cap.
Will you tell me that?
His son was but a ward two years ago. [Juliet is taken out.

Rom.
What lady's ^note that, which doth enrich the hand
Of yonder knight? [to a Servant.

Ser.
I know not, sir. [Company dance.

Rom.
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
Her beauty hangs ^note upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear:
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shews ^note 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 ^note rude hand.
Did my heart love 'till now? forswear it, sight;
For I ne'er ^note saw true beauty 'till this night.

Tyb.
This, by his voice, should be a Mountague:—
Fetch me my rapier, boy:—What, dares the slave
Come hither, cover'd with an antick ^note 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 ^note a sin.

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

Tyb.
Uncle, this is a Mountague, our foe;
A villain, that is hither come in spite,
To scorn at ^note our solemnity this night.

Cap.
Young Romeo is't?

Tyb.
'Tis he, that villain Romeo.

Cap.
Content thee, gentle coz', let him alone,
'A 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 ^note,
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 ^note 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 ^note!
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 saucy boy:—Is't so ^note, indeed?—
This trick may chance to scathe you; I know what.
You must contráry me! marry, 'tis time.—
Well said, my hearts:—You are a princox; go:
Be quiet, or—More light, ^note more light, for shame!—
I'll make you quiet; What!—Chearly, 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 ^note gall. [Exit. [Dance ends. Juliet retires to her Seat. [Exit.

Rom.
If I prophane with my unworthy ^note hand [drawing up to her, and taking her Hand.
  This holy shrine, the gentle fine ^note is ^note this ^note—
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready ^note stand
  To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

Jul.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much
  Which mannerly devotion shews ^note in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do ^note touch,
  And palm to palm is holy palmers' 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, tho' grant for prayers' sake

Rom.
Then move not while my ^note prayer's effect I take ^note
Thus † from my lips, by yours, my ^note sin is purg'd.

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

Rom.
Sin from my lips?—O trespass sweetly urg'd!
  Give me my kiss again. [kissing her again

Jul.
You kiss by the 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'd ^note withal;
I tell you—he, that can lay hold of her,
Shall have the chink ^note.

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

Ben.
Away, begone; ^note 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. [Maskers excuse themselves with a Bow.
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, [to his Cousin.] by my fay, it waxes late;
I'll to my rest. [Company retire.

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

Nur.
The son and heir of old Tiberio.

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

Nur.
Marry, that, I think, be young ^note Petruchio.

Jul.
What's he, that follows there ^note, 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 your ^note great enemy.

Jul.
My only love sprung from my only hate!
Too early seen unknown, ^note and known too late!
Prodigious birth of love it is to ^note me,

That I must love ^note a loathed enemy.

Nur.
What's this? what this ^note?

Jul.
A rime I learnt ^note even now
Of one I danc'd withal. [One calls within.

Nur.
Anon, anon:—
Come, let's away; the strangers are all góne. [Exeunt.

Enter Chorus.
Now old desire doth on ^note his death-bed lie,
  and young affection gapes to be his heir;
that fair, for which love groan'd sore, and ^{note note} would die,
  with tender Juliet match'd ^note, is now not fair:
Now Romeo is belov'd, and loves again,
  alike bewitched by the charm of looks;
yet 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 breath 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 ^note extremities with éxtream sweet. [Exit. SCENE III. Wall of Capulet's Garden. Enter Romeo.

Rom.
Can I go forward, when my heart is here?
Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre ^note out. [leaps the Wall. Enter Benvolio, and Mercutio.

Ben.
Romeo! why ^note, cousin Romeo!

Mer.
He is wise;
And, on my life, hath stoln him home to bed.

Ben.
He ran this way, and leapt this orchard wall:
Call, good Mercutio.

Mer.
Nay, I'll conjure too.—
Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover! ^note
Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh ^note,
Speak but one ^note rime, and I am satisfy'd;
Cry but ^note—Ay me, couple ^note but ^note—love and dove ^note;
Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,
One nick-name for her ^note purblind son and heir, ^note
Young Abraham Cupid14Q1395, he that shot so true ^note
When king Cophetua lov'd the beggar-maid ^note.—
He heareth not, he stirreth ^note not, he moveth not;
The ape is dead, and ^note I must conjure him.—
I conjure thee by Rosaline bright eyes ^note,
By her high forehead, and her scarlet lip,
By her fine foot, strait leg, and quivering thigh,
And the demesnes that there adjacent lie,
That in thy likeness thou appear to us.

Ben.
An 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 ^note stand
'Till she had lay'd it, and conjur'd it down;
That were some spite; my invocation
Is fair and honest, in ^note his mistress' name
I conjure only but to raise up him.

Ben.
Come, he hath hid himself among those ^note trees;
To be consorted with the humorous night:
Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.

Mer.
If love be blind, love cannot ^note hit the mark.

Now will he sit under a medlar tree,
And wish his mistress were such kind ^note of fruit,
As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone:—
Ah, Romeo, that ^note she were, ah, that she were
An open—, and thou ^note a poperin ^note pear!
Romeo, good night:—I'll to my truckle-bed ^note;
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 IV. The Garden. Enter Romeo.

Rom.
He jests at scars, that never felt a wound. Enter Juliet, above.
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun:—
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 ^note green,
And none but fools do wear it, cast it off.—
It is my lady; o, it is my love:
O, that she knew she were!
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 in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat ^note 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 eye in heaven
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.
Ay me!

Rom.
She speaks:—
O, speak again, bright angel; for thou art
As glorious to this sight ^note, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him,
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing ^note 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 ^note more, or shall I speak at this ^note?

Jul.
'Tis but thy name, that is my enemy;
Thou art not14Q1396 thyself so, though a ^note Mountague.
What's Mountague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part ^note:
What's in a name ^note? that which we call a rose,
By any other name would ^note smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes,
Without that title:—Romeo, doff thy name;
And for that name ^note, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.

Rom.
I take thee at thy word: [raising his Voice, and showing himself.
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; ^note
So stumbl'st on my counsel?

Rom.
By a name
I know not how to tell thee who I am:
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee;
Had I it written, I would tear the word.

Jul.
My ears have not yet ^note drunk a hundred words
Of that ^note tongue's uttering ^note, yet I know the sound;
Art thou not Romeo, and a Mountague?

Rom,
Neither, fair saint, if ^note either thee dislike ^note.

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 let to ^note me.

Jul.
If they do see thee, they will murther 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 sight ^note;
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, who first ^note did prompt me to enquire;
He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.
I am no pilot ^note; yet, wert thou as far
As that vast shore wash'd ^note with the farthest sea,
I would ^note 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 ^note!
Dost thou love me? I ^note know, thou wilt say—Ay;
And I will take thy word: yet, if thou swear'st,
Thou may'st prove false; at lovers' perjuries,
They say, Jove laughs. ^note O gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:
Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won,
I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo; but, else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Mountague, I am too fond;
And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour ^note light:
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more ^note cunning ^note to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou over-hear'dst, e'er I ^note was ware,
My true love's ^note passion: therefore pardon me;
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered.

Rom.
Lady, by yonder blessed ^note moon I vow, ^note
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,—

Jul.
O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon
That monthly changes in her circl'd ^note 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 ^note god of my idolatry,
And I'll believe thee.

Rom.
If my heart's dear love—

Jul.
Well, do not swear; although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contráct to-night:
It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden ^note;
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 rip'ning 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 unsatisfy'd?

Jul.
What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?

Rom.
The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine ^note.

Jul.
I gave thee mine before thou didst request it:
And yet I would it were to give again.

Rom.
Would'st 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 Mountague, be true.
Stay but a little, I will come again. [Exit.

Rom.
O blessed blessed night! I am afeard,

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 ^note,
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay,
And follow thee my lord ^note throughout the world:

Nur. [within.]
Madam!

Jul.
I come anon:—But if thou mean'st not well,
I do beseech thee,—

Nur. [within.]
Madam!

Jul.
By and by I come:—
To cease thy suit, and ^note 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 ^note.—
Love goes toward love, as school-boys from their books; [retires slowly.
But love from love, towards school with heavy looks. Enter Juliet again, above.

Jul.
Hist, Romeo, hist!—O, for a faulc'ner's voice,
To lure this tassel-gentle back again!
Bondage is hoarse, and may not ^note speak aloud;
Else would I tear the cave where echo lies,
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine ^note
With repetition of my Romeo.

Rom.
It is my soul, that ^note calls upon my name: [returns to the Window.

How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night!
Like softest musick to attending ears.

Jul.
Romeo!

Rom.
My sweet? ^note

Jul.
At ^note what o'clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee?

Rom.
At the ^note hour of nine.

Jul.
I will not fail; 'tis twenty years ^note 'till then.
I have forgot why I did call thee back.

Rom.
Let me stand ^note here 'till thou remember it.

Jul.
I shall forget still, to have thee stand ^{note note} there,
Rememb'ring how I love thy company.

Rom.
And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home ^note but this.

Jul.
'Tis almost morning, I would have thee gone;
And yet no farther ^note than a wanton's bird;
Who lets ^note it hop a little from her hand ^note,
Like a ^note poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,
And with a silk ^note thread plucks it back ^note again,
So loving ^note-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 ^note 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 father's cell;
His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. [Exit. SCENE V. Fields near a Convent. Enter Friar Lawrence, with a Basket.

Fri.
The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night,
Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light;
And flecker'd ^note darkness like a drunkard reels
From forth day's path-way, made by Titan's wheels:
Now ere the sun advance his burning eye,
The day to ^note chear, and night's dank dew to dry,
I must up-fill this osier cage of ours
With baleful weeds, and precious-juiced flowers.
The earth, that's nature's mother, is her ^note 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 herbs, plants, ^note stones, and their true qualities:
For nought so vile14Q1397 that on the earth doth live,
But to the ^note earth some special good doth give;
Nor ought so good, but, strain'd from that fair use,
Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse ^note:
Virtue itself turns vice, being mis-apply'd;
And vice sometime's ^note by action dignify'd.
Within the infant rind of this † small flower ^note
Poison hath residence, and med'cine power:
For this, being smelt, with that part chears each part;
Being tasted, slays ^note all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed kings ^note 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 lodges ^note, sleep will never lie;
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 ^note 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 ^note lies:
I bear no hatred, blessed man; for, lo,
My intercession likewise steads my foe.

Fri.
Be plain, good son, and homely ^note in thy drift;
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.

Rom.
Then plainly know, my heart's dear love is set
On the fair daughter ^note 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 ^note didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? young men's love then lies
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Jesu Maria! what a deal of brine
Hath wash'd thy sallow ^note cheeks for Rosaline!
How much salt water thrown ^note away in waste,
To season love, that of it doth ^note not taste!
The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,
Thy old groans yet ring in ^note my ^note ancient 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 thyself, and ^note 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 chid'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 ^note love now,
Doth grace for grace, and love for love allow;
The other did not so.

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

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

Fri.
Wisely, and slow; They stumble, that run fast. [Exeunt. ACT III. SCENE I. A Street. Enter Benvolio, and Mercutio.

Mer.
Why, where the devil should this Romeo be!—
Came he not home to night?

Ben.
Not to his father's;
I spoke ^note with his man.

Mer.
Ay, that ^note same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline,
Torments him so, that he will sure run mad.

Ben.
Tybalt, the kinsman of old ^note 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 dared.

Mer.

Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead! stab'd with a white wench's black eye, shot thorough ^note 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 ^note, what is Tybalt?

Mer.

More than prince of cats,14Q1398 I can tell you ^note. O, he is ^note the courageous captain of compliments: he fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion; he rests his minum, one ^note, two, and the third in your

bosom: the very ^note butcher of a silk button, a duelist, a duelist; 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 ^note, lisping, affecting ^note fantasticoes; ^note these new tuners of accents ^note!—By ^note 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—Pardon-me's; ^note who stand so much on the new form, that they cannot ^note sit at ease on the old bench? O their bones, their bones! ^note

Ben.

Here comes Romeo ^note, here comes Romeo.

Mer.

Without his roe, like a dry'd herring:—O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishify'd!—Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flow'd in; Laura, to his lady, was a kitchin-wench;—marry, she had a better love to berime her: Dido, a dowdy; Cleopatra, a gipsy; Helen and Hero, hildings and harlots; Thisbe, a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose.—Signior Romeo, bon jour! there's a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us14Q1399 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 ^note 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'sy.

Mer.

Thou hast most kindly hit it.

Rom.

A most courteous exposition.

Mer.

Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.

Rom.

Pink for flower.

Mer.

Right.

Rom.

Why ^note, then is my pump well flower'd.

Mer.

Well said: follow ^note 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, sole- singular ^note.

Rom.

O single-sol'd jest, solely singular for the singleness!

Mer.

Come between us, good Benvolio; my wit ^note faints ^note.

Rom.

Switch and spurs, switch and spurs; for I ^note cry a match.

Mer.

Nay, if thy wits ^note run the wild-goose chase, I have done ^note; 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 ^note 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 sauce.

Rom.

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

Mer.

O, here's a wit of cheveril! 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 now than groaning for

love? now art thou 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 ^note his bauble in a hole.

Ben.

Stop there, stop there.

Mer.

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

Ben.

Thou would'st else have made thy tale large.

Mer.

O, thou art deceived, I would have made it short: for I ^note was come to the whole depth of my tale; and meant, indeed, to occupy the argument no longer.

Rom.

Here's goodly geer! ^note