† ^noteCHORUS.
Now old desire doth on his death-bed lye,
  And young affection gapes to be his heir:
That Fair, for which love groan'd sore, and would die,
  With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair.
Now Romeo is belov'd, and loves again,
  Alike bewitched by the charm of looks:
But 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 breathe 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,
Tempting extremities with extream sweet. SCENE II. The Street. Enter Romeo alone.

Rom.
Can I go forward when my heart is here?
Turn back, dull earth, and find thy center out. [Exit. Enter Benvolio with Mercutio.

Ben.
Romeo, my cousin Romeo.

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

Ben.
He ran this way, and leap'd this orchard wall.
Call, good Mercutio.

Mer.
Nay, I'll conjure too.
Why, Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover!
Appear thou in the likeness of a Sigh,
Speak but one ^{a note}Rhime, and I am satisfied.
Cry but Ay me! ^{b note}couple but love and dove,
Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,
One nick-name to her ^{c note}pur-blind son and heir,
(Young Abraham Cupid, he that shot so true,
When † ^noteking Cophetua lov'd the beggar-maid—)
He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not,
The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.
I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes,
By her high fore-head, and her scarlet lip,
By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,
And the demeasns that there adjacent lye,

That in thy likeness thou appear to us.

Ben.
And if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.

Mer.
This cannot anger him: 'twould anger him
To raise a spirit in his mistress's circle,
Of some strange nature, letting it there stand
'Till she had laid it, and conjur'd it down;
That were some spight. My invocation is
Honest and fair, and in his mistress' name,
I conjure only but to raise up him.

Ben.
Come, he hath hid himself among these trees,
To be consorted with the hum'rous night:
Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.

Mer.
If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.
Now will he sit under a medlar-tree,
And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit,
Which maids call medlars when they laugh alone—
Romeo, good night, I'll to my truckle-bed,
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 III. A Garden. Enter Romeo.

Rom.
He jests at scars that never felt a wound—
But soft, what light thro' yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! [Juliet appears above at a window.
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 green,
And none but fools do wear it, cast it off—
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 of all the heav'n,
Having some business, do intreat 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 eyes in heav'n,
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.
Ah me!

Rom.
She speaks.
Oh speak again, bright angel, for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger from heav'n,
Unto the white upturned wondring eyes
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him,
When he bestrides the ^{d note}l azy-pacing 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 more, or shall I speak at this? [aside.

Jul.
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy:
What's Mountague? it is not hand, nor foot,

Nor arm, nor face—^{e note}nor any other part.
What's in a name? that which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet.
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes,
Without that title; Romeo, quit thy name,
And for that name, which is no part of thee,
Take all my self.

Rom.
I take thee at thy word:
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
So stumblest on my counsel?

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

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

Rom.
Neither, fair saint, if either thee ^{f note}displease.

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 stop to me.

Jul.
If they do see thee, they will murder 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 eyes,
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, that first did prompt me to enquire,
He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes:
I am no pilot, yet wert thou as far
As that vast shore, wash'd with the farthest sea,
I would 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:
Dost thou love me? I 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. Oh gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:
Or if thou think I am too quickly won,
I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt wooe: but else not for the world.
In truth, fair Mountague, I am too fond;
And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light:
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true,
Than those that have more ^{g note}cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou over-heard'st, ere I was ware,
My true love's passion; therefore pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love,

Which the dark night hath so discovered.

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

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

Rom.
If my true heart's love—

Jul.
Well, do not swear—although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to-night;
It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden,
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 ripening 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 unsatisfied?

Jul.
What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?

Rom.
Th' exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.

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

Rom.
Wouldst 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 afraid
All this is but a dream I hear and see;
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;
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay,
And follow thee, my love, throughout the world.

[Within:
Madam.

I come, anon—but if thou mean'st not well,
I do beseech thee—

[Within:
Madam.]

By and by I come—
To cease thy suit, and 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.
Love goes tow'rd love, as school-boys from their books,
But love from love, towards school with heavy looks. Enter Juliet again.

Jul.
Hist! Romeo, hist! O for a falkner's voice,
To lure this Tassel gentle back again—
Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud,
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lyes,
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine
With repetition of my Romeo.

Rom.
It is my love that calls upon my name,

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

Jul.
Romeo!

Rom.
My sweet!

Jul.
At what a clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee?

Rom.
By the hour of nine.

Jul.
I will not fail, 'tis twenty years 'till then,—
I have forgot why I did call thee back.

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

Jul.
I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,
Remembring how I love thy company.

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

&plquo;Jul.
&plquo;'Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone,
&plquo;And yet no further than a Wanton's bird,
&plquo;That lets it hop a little from her hand,
&plquo;Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves
&plquo;And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
&plquo;So loving 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 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 friar's close cell,
His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. [Exit.

SCENE IV. A Monastery. Enter Friar Lawrence, with a basket.

* ^noteFri.
The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night,
Check'ring the eastern clouds with streaks of light,
And darkness flecker'd 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 chear, and night's dank dew to dry,
I must fill up this osier cage of ours
With baleful weeds, and precious-juiced flowers.
The earth that's nature's mother, is her 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 plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities.
For nought so vile, that on the earth doth live,
But to the earth some special good doth give:
Nor ought so good, but strain'd from that fair use,
^{i note}Revolts to vice, and stumbles on abuse.
Virtue it self turns vice, being misapplied,
And vice sometime by action dignified.

Within the infant rind of this small flower
Poison hath residence, and medicine power:
For this being smelt, with that sense chears each part;
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed foes 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 salutes mine ear?
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 lodgeth, sleep will never lye;
But where unbruised youth with unstuft brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure,
Thou art up-rouz'd by some 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 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 lies;

I bear no hatred, blessed man, for lo
My intercession likewise steads my foe.

Fri.
Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;
Ridling confession finds but ridling shrift.

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

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

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

Fri.
Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast. [Exeunt. SCENE V. The Street. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.

Mer.

Where the devil should this Romeo be? came he not home to-night?

Ben.

Not to his father's, I spoke with his man.

Mer.

Why that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, torments him so, that he will sure run mad.

Ben.

Tybalt, the kinsman to old 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, ^{l note}if he be challeng'd.

Mer.

Alas poor Romeo, he is already dead! stabb'd with a white wench's black eye, run through 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, what is Tybalt?

Mer.

More than prince of cats. Oh he's the couragious captain of compliments; he fights as you sing prick-songs, keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests his minum, one, two, and the third in your bosom; the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist; 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 lisping affected phantasies, these new ^{m note}tuners of accents:—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, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench. O their bones, their bones!

Ben.

Here comes Romeo.

Mer.

Without his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified? Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in: Laura to his lady was but a kitchen-wench; marry she had a better love to berime her: Dido a dowdy, Cleopatra a gipsie, Helen and Hero hildings and harlots: Thisby a gray eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bonjour, there's a French salutation to your French stop.* ^note

Rom.

Good-morrow to you both.

Enter Nurse and her man.

Rom.

Here's goodly gear: a sayle! a sayle.

Mer.

Two, two, a shirt and a smock.

Nurse.

Peter.

Pet.

Anon.

Nurse.

My fan, Peter.

Mer.

Do good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan's the fairer of the two.

Nurse.

God ye good-morrow, gentlemen.

Mer.

God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman.

Nurse.

Is it good-den?

Mer.

'Tis no less, I tell you; for the bawdy hand of the dyal is now upon the prick of noon.

Nurse.

Out upon you; what a man are you?

Rom.

One, gentlewoman, that God hath made, himself to mar.

Nurse.

By my troth it is well said: for himself to mar, quotha? Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find young Romeo.

Rom.

I can tell you: but young Romeo will be older when you have found him, than he was when you sought him: I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse.

Nurse.

You say well.

Mer.
Yea, is the worst well?
Yery well took, i'faith, wisely, wisely.

Nurse.
If you be he, Sir,
I desire some confidence with you.

Ben.
She will invite him to some supper.

Mer.
A bawd, a bawd, a bawd. So ho.* ^note

Rom.
I will follow you.

Mer.
Farewel, ancient lady:
Farewel lady, lady, lady. [Exeunt Mercutio, Benvolio.

Nurse.

I pray you, Sir, what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his roguery?

Rom.

A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk,

and will speak more in a minute, than he will stand to in a month.

Nurse.

An a speak any thing against me, I'll take him down an a were lustier than he is, and twenty such jacks: and if I cannot, I'll find those that shall. Scurvy knave, I am none of his flirt-gils; I am none of his skains-mates. And thou must stand by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure.

Pet.

I saw no man use you at his pleasure: if I had, my weapon should quickly have been out, I warrant you. I dare draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side.

Nurse.

Now afore God, I am so vext, that every part about me quivers—Scurvy knave! Pray you, Sir, a word: and as I told you, my young lady bid me enquire you out; what she bid me say, I will keep to my self: but first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her into fool's paradise, as they say, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say, for the gentlewoman is young; and therefore if you should deal double with her, truly it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing.

Rom.

Commend me to thy lady and mistress, I protest unto thee—

Nurse.

Good heart, and i'faith I will tell her as much: Lord, lord, she will be a joyful woman.

Rom.

What wilt thou tell her, nurse? thou dost not mark me.

Nurse.

I will tell her, Sir, that you do protest; which, as I take it, is a gentleman-like offer.

Rom.
Bid her devise some means to come to shrift this afternoon,
And there she shall at friar Lawrence' cell
Be shriv'd and married: here is for thy pains.

Nurse.
No, truly Sir, not a penny.

Rom.
Go to, I say you shall.

Nurse.
This afternoon, Sir? well, she shall be there.

Rom.
And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey-wall:
Within this hour my man shall be with thee,
And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair,
Which to the high top-gallant of my joy
Must be my convoy in the secret night.
Farewel, be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains:

Nurse.
Now God in heav'n bless thee: hark you, Sir.

Rom.
What sayest thou, my dear nurse?

Nurse.
Is your man secret? did you ne'er hear say,
Two may keep counsel, putting one away?

Rom.
I warrant thee my man's as true as steel.

Nurse.

Well, Sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady; lord, lord, when 'twas a little prating thing—O, there is a noble man in town, one Paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lieve see a toad, a very toad, as see him: I anger her sometimes, and tell her that Paris is the properer man; but I'll warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter?

Rom.

Ay nurse, what of that? both with an R.

Nurse.

Ah mocker! that's the dog's name. R. is for the no, I know it begins with no other letter, and she hath the prettiest sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it.

Romeo.

Commend me to thy lady—

Nurse.

A thousand times. Peter?

Pet.

Anon.

Nurse.

^{n note}Take my fan, and go before.

SCENE VI. Capulet's House. Enter Juliet.

Jul.
The clock struck nine, when I did send the nurse:
In half an hour she promis'd 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 glide 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 honrs—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; Enter Nurse.
* ^noteO God, she comes. What news?
Hast thou met with him? send thy man away.

Nurse.
Peter, stay at the gate.

Jul.
Now good sweet nurse—
O lord, why look'st thou sad?

Nurse.
I am a weary, let me rest 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.

Nurse.
Give me some Aqua vitæ.

Jul.
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?

Nurse.

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 excel all mens, and for a hand and a foot, and a bo-dy, tho' they be not to be talk'd on, yet they are past compare. He is not the flower of courtsie, but I warrant him as gentle as 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?

Nurse.
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?

Nurse.
Your love says like an honest gentleman,
And a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome,
And I warrant a virtuous—where is your mother?

Jul.
Where is my mother? why she is within,
Where should she be? how odly thou reply'st!
Your love says like an honest gentleman:
Where is your mother?—

Nurse.
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?

Nurse.
Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day?

Jul.
I have.

Nurse.
Then hie you hence to friar Lawrence' 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. SCENE VII. The Monastery. Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.

Fri.
So smile the heav'ns upon this holy act,
That after-hours with sorrow chide us not!

Rom.
Amen, amen; but come what sorrow can,
It cannot countervail th' exchange of joy,
That one short minute gives me in her sight:
Do thou but close our hands with holy words,
Then love-devouring death do what he dare,
It is enough I may but call her mine.

Fri.
These violent delights have violent ends,
And in their triumph die like fire and powder,
Which as they meet consume. The sweetest honey
Is loathsome in its own deliciousness,
And in the taste confounds the appetite:
Therefore love mod'rately, long love doth so:
Too swift arrives, as tardy as too slow.

Enter Juliet.
Here comes the lady. O so light a foot
Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint;
&plquo;A lover may bestride the gossamour,
&plquo;That idles in the wanton summer air,
&plquo;And yet not fall, so light is vanity.

Jul.
Good-even to my ghostly confessor.

Fri.
Romeo shall thank thee daughter for us both.

Jul.
As much to him, else are his thanks too much.

Rom.
Ah Juliet, if the measure of thy joy
Be heapt like mine, and that thy skill be more
To blazon it; then sweeten with thy breath
This neighbour air, and let rich musick's tongue
Unfold th' imagin'd happiness, that both
Receive in either, by this dear encounter.

Jul.
Conceit more rich in matter than in words,
Brags of his substance, not of ornament:
They are but beggars that can count their worth,
But my true love is grown to such excess,
I cannot sum up one half of my wealth.

Fri.
Come, come with me, and we will make short work,
For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone,
'Till holy church incorp'rate two in one. [Exeunt.

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