Capulets.
Sampson.
Gregory on my word we'll not carry coals.
Greg.
No, for then we should be colliers.
Sam.
I strike quickly, being mov'd.
Greg.
But thou art not quickly mov'd to strike.
Sam.
A dog of the house of Mountague moves me.
Greg.
To move, is to stir; and to be valiant, is to stand:
therefore, if thou art mov'd, thou runn'st away.
Sam.
A dog of that house shall move me to stand: I will take
the wall of any man or maid of Mountague's.
Greg.
That shews thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to
the wall.
Sam.
True, and therefore women, being the weakest vessels,
are ever thrust to the wall: therefore I will push Mountague's men
-- 246 --
from the wall, and thrust his maids to the wall.
Greg.
The quarrel is between our masters, and us their men.
Sam.
'Tis all one, I will shew my self a tyrant: when I have
fought with the men, I will be a notecruel with the maids, and cut
off their heads.
Greg.
The heads of the maids?
Sam.
Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maiden-heads, take
it in what sense thou wilt.
Greg.
They must take it in sense that feel it.
Sam.
Me they shall feel while I am able to stand: and 'tis
known I am a pretty piece of flesh.
Greg.
'Tis well thou art not fish: if thou hadst, thou hadst
been Poor John. Draw thy tool, here comes of the house of
the Mountagues.
Enter Abram and Balthasar.
Sam.
My naked weapon is out; quarrel, I will back thee.
Greg.
How: turn thy back and run?
Sam.
Fear me not.
Greg.
No, marry: I fear thee.
Sam.
Let us take the law of our sides: let them begin.
Greg.
I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they
list.
Sam.
Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them,
which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it.
Abr.
Do you bite your thumb at us, Sir?
Sam.
I do bite my thumb, Sir.
Abr.
Do you bite your thumb at us, Sir?
Sam.
Is the law on our side, if I say ay?
Greg.
No.
Sam.
No, Sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, Sir: but I bite
my thumb, Sir.
Greg.
Do you quarrel, Sir?
-- 247 --
Abr.
Quarrel, Sir? no, Sir.
Sam.
If you do, Sir, I am for you; I serve as good a man
as you.
Abr.
No better?
Sam.
Well, Sir.
‡ noteEnter Benvolio.
Greg.
Say better: here comes one of my master's kinsmen.
Sam.
Yes, better, Sir.
Abr.
You lie.
Sam.
Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing
blow.
[They fight.
Ben.
Part, fools, put up your swords, you know not what
you do.
Enter Tybalt.
Tyb.
What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?
Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.
Ben.
I do but keep the peace; put up thy sword,
Or manage it to part these men with me.
Tyb.
What draw, and talk of peace? I hate the word
As I hate hell, all Mountagues and thee:
Have at thee, coward.
[Fight.
Enter three or four citizens with clubs.
Offic.
Clubs, bills, and partisans! strike! beat them down,
Down with the Capulets, down with the Mountagues.
Enter old Capulet in his gown, and lady Capulet.
Cap.
What noise is this? give me my long sword, ho?
La. Cap.
A crutch, a crutch: why call you for a sword?
Cap.
A sword, I say: old Mountague is come,
And flourishes his blade in spight of me.
-- 248 --
Enter old Mountague and lady 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 mis-temper'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;* note
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.
-- 249 --
SCENE II.
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, ere 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 swung about his head, and cut the winds.
While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,
Came more and more, and fought on part and part,
'Till the Prince came.
La. Moun.
O where is Romeo!
Right glad am I, he was not at this fray.
Ben.
Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun
Peep'd through the golden window of the East,
A troubled mind drew me from company;
Where underneath the grove of sycamour,
That westward rooteth from this city side,
So early walking did I see your son.
Tow'rds him I made, but he was 'ware of me,
And stole into the covert of the wood.
I measuring his affections by my own,
b note
That most are busied when they're most alone,
Pursued my humour, not pursuing his;
† noteAnd gladly shun'd, who gladly fled from me.
Moun.
Many a morning hath he there been seen
With tears augmenting the fresh morning dew;
-- 250 --
But all so soon as the all-cheering sun
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.
† noteBen.
Have you importun'd him by any means?
Moun.
Both by my self and many other friends;
But he, his own affection's 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,
Ere 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.
[Exe.
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 Remeo's hours?
-- 251 --
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:
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!
Oh any thing of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mis-shapen 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.
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast;
Which thou wilt propagate to have them 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 rais'd with the fume of sighs,
Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers eyes,
Being vext, a sea nourish'd with lovers tears;
What is it else? a madness most discreet,
A choaking gall, and a preserving sweet:
Farewel, my cozen.
[Going.
-- 252 --
Ben.
Soft, I'll 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 she is you love?
Rom.
What, shall I groan and tell thee?
Ben.
Groan? why no; but sadly tell me, who.
Rom.
Bid a sick man in sadness make 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.
But in that hit you miss,—she'll not be hit
With Cupid's arrow; she hath Dian's wit:
And in strong proof of chastity well arm'd,
From love's weak childish bow, she lives unharm'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?
† noteRom.
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, forgot to think of her.
Rom.
O teach me how I should forget to think.
Ben.
By giving liberty unto thine eyes;
Examine other beauties.
-- 253 --
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.
SCENE III.
Enter Capulet, Paris, and servant.
Cap.
And Mountague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard
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,
Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.
Par.
Younger than she are happy mothers made.
Cap.
And too soon marr'd are those so early made:
The earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she.* note
But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,
My will to her consent is but a part;
-- 254 --
If 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,
One 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 on 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.
[Exeunt Cap. and 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 here
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 help'd by backward turning,
One desperate grief cure with another's languish:
-- 255 --
Take thou some new infection to the eye,
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-e'en, good fellow.
[To the ser.
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 daughters: Count Anselm
and his beauteous sisters; the lady widow of Vitruvio; Signor
Placentino, and his lovely neices; Mercutio and his brother Valentine;
mine uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters; my fair neice
Rosaline, Livio, signior Valento, and his cousin Tibalt; Lucio,
and the lively 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.
-- 256 --
Ben.
At this same ancient feast of Capulets,
Sups the fair Rosaline, whom thou so lov'st;
With all th' admired beauties of Verona.
Go thither, and with unattainted eye,
Compare her face with some that I shall show,
And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.
Rom.
When the devout religion of mine eye
Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires;
And these who often drown'd could never die,
Transparent hereticks, be burnt for liars.
One fairer than my love! th' 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 lady's love against some other maid
That I will shew you, shining at this feast,
And she will shew scant well, that now shews best.
Rom.
I'll go along, no such sight to be shewn,
But to rejoice in splendor of mine own.
SCENE IV.
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?
-- 257 --
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, thou shalt hear my counsel: thou know'st 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 c noteteeth be
it spoken, I have but four, she's not four-teen; how long is it
now to Lammas-tide?
La. Cap.
A fortnight and odd days.
&plquo;Nurse.
&plquo;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 God, she
was too good for me. But as I said, on Lammas-eve at night
shall she be fourreen, 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, I do bear a brain. But as I said, when it
did taste the worm-wood on the nipple of my dug, and felt it
bitter, 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, by th' rood she could have run, and
wadled 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
-- 258 --
thy face? thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit,
wilt thou not, Julé? and by my holy-dam, the pretty wretch
left crying, and said, ay; To see now how a jest shall come
about. I warrant, an I should live a thousand years, I never
should forget it: Wilt thou not, Julé, quoth he? and pretty
fool, it stinted, and said, ay.&prquo;
La. Cap.
Enough of this, I pray thee hold thy peace.
† noteNurse.
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 cockrel's 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, Julé? 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.
An I might live to see thee married once,
I have my wish.
La. Cap.
d noteAnd that same marriage is the very theam
I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,
How stands your disposition to be married?
Jul.
It is an e notehonour that I dream not of.
Nurse.
An honour? were not I thine only nurse,
I'd say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat.
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.
-- 259 --
La. Cap.
Verona's summer hath not such a flower.
Nurse.
Nay he's a flower, in faith a very flower.‡ note
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 ingage 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.* note
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six other maskers, torch-bearers.
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.
† noteNor a without-book prologue faintly spoke
After the prompter, for our enterance.
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.
Mer.
Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.
-- 260 --
Rom.
Not I, believe me; you have dancing shoes
With nimble soles, I have a soul of lead,
So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.† note
Mer.
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.
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-holder, and look on.* note
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.
&plquo;Mer.
&plquo;O then I see queen Mab hath been with you.
&plquo;She is the fairies mid-wife, and she comes
&plquo;In shape no bigger than an agat-stone
&plquo;On the fore-finger of an alderman,
&plquo;Drawn with a team of little atomies,
&plquo;Athwart mens noses as they lye asleep:
-- 261 --
&plquo;Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners legs;
&plquo;The cover, of the wings of grashoppers;
&plquo;The traces, of the smallest spider's web;
&plquo;The collars, of the moonshine's watry beams;
&plquo;Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film;
&plquo;Her waggoner a small grey-coated gnat,
&plquo;Not half so big as a round little worm,
&plquo;Prickt from the lazy finger of a maid.
&plquo;Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
&plquo;Made by the joyner squirrel or old grub,
&plquo;Time out of mind the fairies coach-makers:
&plquo;And in this state she gallops night by night,
&plquo;Through lovers brains, and then they dream of love:
&plquo;On courtiers knees, that dream on curtsies strait:
&plquo;O'er lawyers fingers, who strait dream on fees:
&plquo;O'er ladies lips, who strait on kisses dream,
&plquo;Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
&plquo;Because their breaths with sweet-meats tainted are.
&plquo;Sometimes she gallops o'er a f notelawyer's nose,
&plquo;And then dreams he of smelling out a suit:
&plquo;And sometimes comes she with a tith-pig's tail,
&plquo;Tickling a parson as he lies asleep;
&plquo;Then dreams he of another benefice.
&plquo;Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
&plquo;And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
&plquo;Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
&plquo;Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
&plquo;Drums in his ears, at which he starts and wakes,
&plquo;And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
&plquo;And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
&plquo;That plats the manes of horses in the night,
&plquo;And g notecakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,
&plquo;Which once h noteuntangled, much misfortune bodes.
-- 262 --
&plquo;This is the hag, when maids lye on their backs,
&plquo;That presses them, and learns them first to bear,
&plquo;Making them women of good carriage:
&plquo;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
Ev'n now the frozen bosom of the north,
And being anger'd puffs away from thence,
Turning his face 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 lye all 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-cup-board,
-- 263 --
look to the plate: good thou, save me a peice of march-pane;
and as thou lovest me, let the porter let in 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.
SCENE VI.
Enter all the guests and ladies to the maskers.
1 Cap.
Welcome gentlemen. Ladies that have your feet
Unplagu'd with corns, i notewe'll have a bout with you.
Ah me, my mistresses, which of you all
Will now deny to dance? she that makes dainty
I'll swear hath corns; am I come near ye now?
Welcome all gentlemen, I've 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!
[Musick plays, and they dance.
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 days:
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,
-- 264 --
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's 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,
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 happy my rude hand.
Did my heart love 'till now? forswear it, sight;
I never 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,
To 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't?
Tib.
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,
-- 265 --
To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth.
I would not for the wealth of all this 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,
And 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 endur'd.* note
Be quiet, or (more light, 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 unworthy 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 that pilgrims hands 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.
-- 266 --
Rom.
O then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do,
They pray, (grant thou) lest faith turn to despair.* note
Nurse.
Madam, your mother craves a word with you.
Rom.
What is her mother?
[To her nurse.
Nurse.
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 chink.
Rom.
Is she a Capulet?
O dear account! my life is my foe's debt.
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 yon gentleman?
Nurse.
The son and heir of old Tiberio.
Jul.
What's he that now is going out of door?
Nurse.
That as I think is young Petruchio.
Jul.
What's he that follows here, that would not dance?
Nurse.
I know not.
-- 267 --
Jul.
Go ask his name. If he be married,
My grave is like to be my wedding bed.
Nurse.
His name is Romeo, and a Mountague,
The only son of your 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.
Nurse.
What's this? what's this?
Jul.
A rhime I learn'd e'en now
Of one I danc'd withal.
[One calls within, Juliet.
Nurse.
Anon, anon—
Come, let's away, thest rangers all are gone.
[Exeunt.
George Sewell [1723–5], The works of Shakespear in six [seven] volumes. Collated and Corrected by the former Editions, By Mr. Pope ([Vol. 7] Printed by J. Darby, for A. Bettesworth [and] F. Fayram [etc.], London) [word count] [S11101].
