Two households, both alike in dignity
 (In fair Verona, where we lay our scene),
 From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
 Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
 From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
 A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life;
 Whose misadventured piteous overthrows
 Does with their death bury their parents' strife.
 The fearful passage of their death-marked love
 And the continuance of their parents' rage,
 Which, but their children's end, naught could remove,
 Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;
 The which, if you with patient ears attend,
 What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.





 Gregory, on my word we'll not carry coals.
 No, for then we should be colliers.
 I mean, an we be in choler, we'll draw.
 Ay, while you live, draw your neck out of
 collar.
 I strike quickly, being moved.
 But thou art not quickly moved to strike.
 A dog of the house of Montague moves me.
 To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to
 stand. Therefore if thou art moved thou runn'st
 away.
 A dog of that house shall move me to stand. I
 will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague's.
 That shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest
 goes to the wall.
 It Is true, and therefore women, being the
 weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall. Therefore
 I will push Montague's men from the wall and
 thrust his maids to the wall.
 The quarrel is between our masters and us
 their men.
 It Is all one. I will show myself a tyrant.
 When I have fought with the men, I will be civil
 with the maids; I will cut off their heads.
 The heads of the maids?
 Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads.
 Take it in what sense thou will.
 They must take it in sense that feel it.
 Me they shall feel while I am able to stand,
 and it is known I am a pretty piece of flesh.
 It Is well thou art not fish; if thou had, thou
 had been poor-john. Draw thy tool. Here comes
 of the house of Montagues.



 My naked weapon is out. Quarrel, I will back
 thee.
 How? Turn thy back and run?
 Fear me not.
 No, marry. I fear thee!
 Let us take the law of our sides; let them
 begin.
 I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it
 as they list.
 Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at
 them, which is disgrace to them if they bear it.

 Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
 I do bite my thumb, sir.
 Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
 Is the law of our side if I
 say Ay?
 No.
 No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir,
 but I bite my thumb, sir.
 Do you quarrel, sir?
 Quarrel, sir? No, sir.
 But if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as
 good a man as you.
 No better.
 Well, sir.



 Say better; here comes
 one of my master's kinsmen.
 Yes, better, sir.
 You lie.
 Draw if you be men. -- Gregory, remember
 thy washing blow.
 Part, fools!
 Put up your swords. You know not what you do.




 What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?
 Turn thee, Benvolio; look upon thy death.

 I do but keep the peace. Put up thy sword,
 Or manage it to part these men with me.

 What, drawn and talk of peace? I hate the word
 As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.
 Have at thee, coward!




 Clubs, bills, and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!
 Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!




 What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!
 A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a
 sword?



 My sword, I say. Old Montague is come
 And flourishes his blade in spite of me.

 Thou villain Capulet! -- Hold me not; let me go.

 Thou shall not stir one foot to seek a foe.




 Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,
 Profaners of this neighbor-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 those bloody hands
 Throw your mistempered weapons to the ground,
 And hear the sentence of your moved prince.
 Three civil brawls bred of an airy word
 By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,
 Have thrice disturbed the quiet of our streets
 And made Verona's ancient citizens
 Cast by their grave-beseeming ornaments
 To wield old partisans in hands as old,
 Cankered with peace, to part your cankered hate.
 If ever you disturb our streets again,
 Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
 For this time all the rest depart away.
 You, Capulet, shall go along with me,
 And, Montague, come you this afternoon
 To know our farther pleasure in this case,
 To old Free-town, our common judgment-place.
 Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.



 Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?
 Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?

 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 Tybalt with his sword prepared,
 Which, as he breathed defiance to my ears,
 He swung about his head and cut the winds,
 Who, nothing hurt withal, hissed him in scorn.
 While we were interchanging thrusts and blows
 Came more and more and fought on part and part,
 Till the Prince came, who parted either part.

 O, where is Romeo? Saw you him today?
 Right glad I am he was not at this fray.

 Madam, an hour before the worshipped sun
 Peered forth the golden window of the east,
 A troubled mind drove me to walk abroad,
 Where underneath the grove of sycamore
 That westward rooteth from this city side,
 So early walking did I see your son.
 Toward him I made, but he was 'ware of me
 And stole into the covert of the wood.
 I, measuring his affections by my own
 (Which then most sought where most might not be
 found,
 Being one too many by my weary self),
 Pursued my humor, not pursuing his,
 And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.

 Many a morning has he there been seen,
 With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew,
 Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs.
 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 daylight out,
 And makes himself an artificial night.
 Black and portentous must this humor prove,
 Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

 My noble uncle, do you know the cause?

 I neither know it nor can learn of him.

 Have you importuned him by any means?

 Both by myself and many other friends.
 But he, his own affections' counselor,
 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.




 See where he comes. So please you, step aside.
 I Will know his grievance or be much denied.

 I would thou were so happy by thy stay
 To hear true shrift. -- Come, madam, let us away.


 Good morrow, cousin.
 Is the day so young?

 But new struck nine.
 Ay me, sad hours seem long.
 Was that my father that went hence so fast?

 It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?

 Not having that which, having, makes them short.
 In love?
 Out --
 Of love?

 Out of her favor where I am in love.

 Alas that love, so gentle in his view,
 Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!

 Alas that love, whose view is muffled still,
 Should without eyes see pathways to his will!
 Where shall we dine? -- O me! What fray was here?
 Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.
 Here Is much to do with hate, but more with love.
 Why then, O brawling love, O loving hate,
 O anything of nothing first create!
 O heavy lightness, serious vanity,
 Misshapen 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.
 Do thou not laugh?
 No, coz, I rather weep.

 Good heart, at what?
 At thy good heart's oppression.
 Why, such is love's transgression.
 Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,
 Which thou will propagate to have it pressed
 With more of thine. This love that thou have shown
 Does add more grief to too much of mine own.
 Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs;
 Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;
 Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears.
 What is it else? A madness most discreet,
 A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
 Farewell, my coz.
 Soft, I will go along.
 An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

 Tut, I have lost myself. I am not here.
 This is not Romeo. He Is some other where.

 Tell me in sadness, who is that you love?
 What, shall I groan and tell thee?

 Groan? Why, no. But sadly tell me who.

 A sick man in sadness makes his will --
 A word ill urged to one that is so ill.
 In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.

 I aimed so near when I supposed you loved.

 A right good markman! And she is fair I love.

 A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.

 Well in that hit you miss. She Will not be hit
 With Cupid's arrow. She has Dian's wit,
 And, in strong proof of chastity well armed,
 From love's weak childish bow she lives uncharmed.
 She will not stay the siege of loving terms,
 Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes,
 Nor open her lap to saint-seducing gold.
 O, she is rich in beauty, only poor
 That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store.

 Then she has sworn that she will still live chaste?

 She has, and in that sparing makes huge waste;
 For beauty, starved 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 has forsworn to love, and in that vow
 Do I live dead, that live to tell it now.

 Be ruled by me. Forget to think of her.

 O, teach me how I should forget to think!

 By giving liberty unto thine eyes.
 Examine other beauties.
 It Is the way
 To call hers, exquisite, in question more.
 These happy masks that kiss fair ladies' brows,
 Being black, puts us in mind they hide the fair.
 He that is stricken blind cannot forget
 The precious treasure of his eyesight lost.
 Show me a mistress that is passing fair;
 What does her beauty serve but as a note
 Where I may read who passed that passing fair?
 Farewell. Thou can not teach me to forget.

 I Will pay that doctrine or else die in debt.





 But Montague is bound as well as I,
 In penalty alike, and it is not hard, I think,
 For men so old as we to keep the peace.

 Of honorable reckoning are you both,
 And pity it is you lived at odds so long.
 But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?

 But saying over what I have said before.
 My child is yet a stranger in the world.
 She has 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.

 Younger than she are happy mothers made.

 And too soon marred are those so early made.
 Earth has swallowed all my hopes but she;
 She Is the hopeful lady of my earth.
 But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart;
 My will to her consent is but a part.
 And, she agreed, within her scope of choice
 Lies my consent and fair according voice.
 This night I hold an old accustomed 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-appareled April on the heel
 Of limping winter treads, even such delight
 Among fresh fennel 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 reckoning 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.

 Find them out whose names are written
 here! It is written that the shoemaker 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 has here writ. I must to the learned.
 In good time!




 Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning;
 One pain is lessened by another's anguish.
 Turn giddy, and be helped by backward turning.
 One desperate grief cures with another's languish.
 Take thou some new infection to thy eye,
 And the rank poison of the old will die.

 Your plantain leaf is excellent for that.

 For what, I pray thee?
 For your broken shin.
 Why Romeo, art thou mad?

 Not mad, but bound more than a madman is,
 Shut up in prison, kept without my food,
 Whipped and tormented, and -- good even, good
 fellow.
 God gi' good even. I pray, sir, can you
 read?

 Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.
 Perhaps you have learned it without
 book. But I pray, can you read anything you see?

 Ay, if I know the letters and the language.
 You say honestly. Rest you merry.
 Stay, fellow. I can read.
 Signior Martino and his wife and daughters,
 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 and Livia,
 Signior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt,
 Lucio and the lively Helena.
 A fair assembly. Whither should they come?
 Up.
 Whither? To supper?
 To our house.
 Whose house?
 My master's.

 Indeed I should have asked thee that before.
 Now I Will tell you without asking. My
 master is the great rich Capulet, and, if you be not
 of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a
 cup of wine. Rest you merry.

 At this same ancient feast of Capulet's
 Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so loves,
 With all the 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.

 When the devout religion of mine eye
 Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire;
 And these who, often drowned, could never die,
 Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars.
 One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun
 Never saw her match since first the world begun.

 Tut, you saw her fair, none else being by,
 Herself poised with herself in either eye;
 But in that crystal scales let there be weighed
 Your lady's love against some other maid
 That I will show you shining at this feast,
 And she shall scant show well that now seems best.

 I Will go along, no such sight to be shown,
 But to rejoice in splendour of mine own.




 Nurse, where is my daughter? Call her forth to me.

 Now, by my maidenhead at twelve year old,
 I bade her come. -- What, lamb! What, ladybird!
 God forbid. Where Is this girl? What, Juliet!


 How now, who calls?
 Your mother.

 Madam, I am here. What is your will?

 This is the matter. -- Nurse, give leave awhile.
 We must talk in secret. -- Nurse, come back again.
 I have remembered me, thou 's hear our counsel.
 Thou know my daughter's of a pretty age.

 Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.
 She Is not fourteen.
 I Will lay fourteen of my teeth (and yet, to my teen
 be it spoken, I have but four) she is not fourteen.
 How long is it now to Lammastide?
 A fortnight and odd days.

 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 fourteen.
 That shall she. Marry, I remember it well.
 It Is since the earthquake now eleven years,
 And she was weaned (I never shall forget it)
 Of all the days of the year, upon that day.
 For I had then laid wormwood to my dug,
 Sitting in the sun under the dovehouse 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 tetchy and fall out with the dug.
 Shake, quoth the dovehouse. 'Twas no need, I
 trow,
 To bid me trudge.
 And since that time it is eleven years.
 For then she could stand high-lone. Nay, by the
 rood,
 She could have run and waddled all about,
 For even the day before, she broke her brow,
 And then my husband (God be with his soul,
 He was a merry man) took up the child.
 Yea, quoth he, Do thou fall upon thy face?
 Thou will fall backward when thou have more wit,
 Will thou not, Jule? And, by my holidam,
 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. Will thou not, Jule?
 quoth he.
 And, pretty fool, it stinted and said Ay.

 Enough of this. I pray thee, hold thy peace.

 Yes, madam, yet I cannot choose 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 cock'rel's stone,
 A perilous knock, and it cried bitterly.
 Yea, quoth my husband. Fall'st upon thy face?
 Thou will fall backward when thou come to age,
 Will thou not, Jule? It stinted and said Ay.

 And stint thou, too, I pray thee, nurse, say I.

 Peace. I have done. God mark thee to his grace,
 Thou wast the prettiest babe that ever I nursed.
 An I might live to see thee married once,
 I have my wish.

 Marry, that marry is the very theme
 I came to talk of. -- Tell me, daughter Juliet,
 How stands your disposition to be married?

 It is an honor that I dream not of.

 An honor? Were not I thine only nurse,
 I would say thou had sucked wisdom from thy
 teat.

 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.

 A man, young lady -- lady, such a man
 As all the world -- why, he is a man of wax.

 Verona's summer has not such a flower.

 Nay, he is a flower, in faith, a very flower.

 What say you? Can you love the gentleman?
 This night you shall behold him at our feast.
 Read over the volume of young Paris' face,
 And find delight writ there with beauty's pen.
 Examine every married lineament
 And see how one another lends content,
 And what obscured in this fair volume lies
 Find written in the margent 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 it is much pride
 For fair without the fair within to hide.
 That book in many's eyes does share the glory
 That in gold clasps locks in the golden story.
 So shall you share all that he does possess
 By having him, making yourself no less.

 No less? Nay, bigger. Women grow by men.

 Speak briefly. Can you like of Paris' love?

 I Will look to like, if looking liking move.
 But no more deep will I endart mine eye
 Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.



 Madam, the guests are come, supper
 served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the
 Nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in
 extremity. I must hence to wait. I beseech you,
 follow straight.

 We follow thee.
 Juliet, the County stays.

 Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.





 What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?
 Or shall we on without apology?

 The date is out of such prolixity.
 We'll have no Cupid hoodwinked with a scarf,
 Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath,
 Scaring the ladies like a crowkeeper,
 Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke
 After the prompter, for our entrance.
 But let them measure us by what they will.
 We'll measure them a measure and be gone.

 Give me a torch. I am not for this ambling.
 Being but heavy I will bear the light.

 Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.

 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.

 You are a lover. Borrow Cupid's wings
 And soar with them above a common bound.

 I am too sore enpierced with his shaft
 To soar with his light feathers, and so bound
 I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe.
 Under love's heavy burden do I sink.

 And to sink in it should you burden love --
 Too great oppression for a tender thing.

 Is love a tender thing? It is too rough,
 Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

 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. --
 A visor for a visor. What care I
 What curious eye does cote deformities?
 Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me.

 Come, knock and enter, and no sooner in
 But every man betake him to his legs.

 A torch for me. Let wantons light of heart
 Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels,
 For I am proverbed with a grandsire phrase:
 I Will be a candle holder and look on;
 The game was never so fair, and I am done.

 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, love -- wherein thou
 stickest
 Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho!

 Nay, that is not so.
 I mean, sir, in delay
 We waste our lights; in vain, light lights by day.
 Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits
 Five times in that ere once in our five wits.

 And we mean well in going to this masque,
 But it is no wit to go.
 Why, may one ask?

 I dreamt a dream tonight.
 And so did I.

 Well, what was yours?
 That dreamers often lie.

 In bed asleep while they do dream things true.

 O, then I see Queen Mab has been with you.
 She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes
 In shape no bigger than an agate stone
 On the forefinger of an alderman,
 Drawn with a team of little atomi
 Over men's noses as they lie asleep.
 Her wagon spokes made of long spinners' legs,
 The cover of the wings of grasshoppers,
 Her traces of the smallest spider web,
 Her collars of the moonshine's watery beams,
 Her whip of cricket's bone, the lash of film,
 Her wagoner a small gray-coated gnat,
 Not half so big as a round little worm
 Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid.
 Her chariot is an empty hazelnut,
 Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
 Time out of mind the fairies' coachmakers.
 And in this state she gallops night by night
 Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
 On courtiers' knees, that dream on cur'sies straight;
 Over lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees;
 Over ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream,
 Which often the angry Mab with blisters plagues
 Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.
 Sometime she gallops over a courtier's nose,
 And then dreams he of smelling out a suit.
 And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,
 Tickling a parson's nose as he lies asleep;
 Then he dreams of another benefice.
 Sometime she drives over 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, 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 bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs,
 Which once untangled much misfortune bodes.
 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.
 This is she --
 Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace.
 Thou talk of nothing.
 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 woos
 Even now the frozen bosom of the north
 And, being angered, puffs away from thence,
 Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.

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

 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 closed in my breast
 By some vile forfeit of untimely death.
 But he that has the steerage of my course
 Direct my sail. On, lusty gentlemen.
 Strike, drum.





 Where Is Potpan that he helps not
 to take away? He shift a trencher? He scrape a
 trencher?
 When good manners shall lie
 all in one or two men's hands, and they unwashed
 too, it is a foul thing.
 Away with the joint stools, remove
 the court cupboard, look to the plate. --
 Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane, and, as
 thou loves me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone
 and Nell. -- Anthony and Potpan!
 Ay, boy, ready.
 You are looked for and called for,
 asked for and sought for, in the great chamber.
 We cannot be here and there too.
 Cheerly, boys! Be brisk awhile, and the longer liver
 take all.






 Welcome, gentlemen. Ladies that have their toes
 Unplagued with corns will walk a bout with
 you. --
 Ah, my mistresses, which of you all
 Will now deny to dance? She that makes dainty,
 She, I Will swear, has corns. Am I come near you
 now? --
 Welcome, gentlemen. I have seen the day
 That I have worn a visor and could tell
 A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear,
 Such as would please. It Is gone, it is gone, it is gone.
 You are welcome, gentlemen. -- Come, musicians,
 play.
 A hall, a hall, give room! -- And foot it, girls. --
 More light, you knaves, and turn the tables up,
 And quench the fire; the room is grown too hot. --
 Ah, sirrah, this unlooked-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 yourself and I
 Were in a mask?
 By 'r Lady, thirty years.

 What, man, it is not so much, it is not so much.
 It Is since the nuptial of Lucentio,
 Come Pentecost as quickly as it will,
 Some five and twenty years, and then we masked.

 It Is more, it is more. His son is elder, sir.
 His son is thirty.
 Will you tell me that?
 His son was but a ward two years ago.

 What lady's that which does enrich the hand
 Of yonder knight?
 I know not, sir.

 O, she does teach the torches to burn bright!
 It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
 As a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear --
 Beauty too rich for use, for Earth too dear.
 So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows
 As yonder lady over her fellows shows.
 The measure done, I Will watch her place of stand
 And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
 Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight,
 For I never saw true beauty till this night.

 This, by his voice, should be a Montague. --
 Fetch me my rapier, boy.
 What, dares the slave
 Come hither covered with an antic face
 To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
 Now, by the stock and honor of my kin,
 To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.

 Why, how now, kinsman? Wherefore storm you so?

 Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe,
 A villain that is hither come in spite
 To scorn at our solemnity this night.

 Young Romeo is it?
 It Is he, that villain Romeo.

 Content thee, gentle coz. Let him alone.
 He bears him like a portly gentleman,
 And, to say truth, Verona brags of him
 To be a virtuous and well-governed 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,
 Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,
 An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.

 It fits when such a villain is a guest.
 I Will not endure him.
 He shall be endured.
 What, goodman boy? I say he shall. Go to.
 Am I the master here or you? Go to.
 You Will not endure him! God shall mend my soul,
 You Will make a mutiny among my guests,
 You will set cock-a-hoop, you will be the man!

 Why, uncle, it is a shame.
 Go to, go to.
 You are a saucy boy. Is 't so indeed?
 This trick may chance to scathe you. I know what.
 You must contrary me. Marry, it is time --
 Well said, my hearts. -- You are a princox, go.
 Be quiet, or -- More light, more light! -- for shame,
 I Will make you quiet. -- What, cheerly, my hearts!

 Patience perforce with willful choler meeting
 Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.
 I will withdraw, but this intrusion shall,
 Now seeming sweet, convert to bitt'rest gall.


 If I profane with my unworthiest hand
 This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:
 My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
 To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

 Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
 Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
 For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
 And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.

 Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

 Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

 O then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do.
 They pray: grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.

 Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.

 Then move not while my prayer's effect I take.

 Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.

 Then have my lips the sin that they have took.

 Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged!
 Give me my sin again.
 You kiss by the book.

 Madam, your mother craves a word with you.


 What is her mother?
 Marry, bachelor,
 Her mother is the lady of the house,
 And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous.
 I nursed her daughter that you talked withal.
 I tell you, he that can lay hold of her
 Shall have the chinks.
 Is she a Capulet?
 O dear account! My life is my foe's debt.

 Away, begone. The sport is at the best.

 Ay, so I fear. The more is my unrest.

 Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone.
 We have a trifling foolish banquet toward. --
 Is it even so? Why then, I thank you all.
 I thank you, honest gentlemen. Good night. --
 More torches here. -- Come on then, let us to bed. --
 Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late.
 I Will to my rest.


 Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman?

 The son and heir of old Tiberio.

 What Is he that now is going out of door?

 Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio.

 What Is he that follows here, that would not dance?
 I know not.

 Go ask his name. If he be married,
 My grave is like to be my wedding bed.

 His name is Romeo, and a Montague,
 The only son of your great enemy.

 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.

 What Is this? What Is this?
 A rhyme I learned even now
 Of one I danced withal.
 Juliet.
 Anon, anon.
 Come, let us away. The strangers all are gone.





 Now old desire does in his deathbed lie,
 And young affection gapes to be his heir.
 That fair for which love groaned for and would die,
 With tender Juliet matched, is now not fair.
 Now Romeo is beloved and loves again,
 Alike bewitched by the charm of looks,
 But to his foe supposed 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 anywhere.
 But passion lends them power, time means, to meet,
 Temp'ring extremities with extreme sweet.




 Can I go forward when my heart is here?
 Turn back, dull earth, and find thy center out.




 Romeo, my cousin Romeo, Romeo!
 He is wise
 And, on my life, has stolen him home to bed.

 He ran this way and leapt this orchard wall.
 Call, good Mercutio.
 Nay, I Will conjure too.
 Romeo! Humors! Madman! Passion! Lover!
 Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh.
 Speak but one rhyme and I am satisfied.
 Cry but Ay me, pronounce but love and
 dove.
 Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,
 One nickname for her purblind son and heir,
 Young Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim
 When King Cophetua loved the beggar maid. --
 He hears not, he stirs not, he moves not.
 The ape is dead, and I must conjure him. --
 I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes,
 By her high forehead, and her scarlet lip,
 By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,
 And the demesnes that there adjacent lie,
 That in thy likeness thou appear to us.

 An if he hear thee, thou will anger him.

 This cannot anger him. 'Twould anger him
 To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle
 Of some strange nature, letting it there stand
 Till she had laid it and conjured it down.
 That were some spite. My invocation
 Is fair and honest. In his mistress' name,
 I conjure only but to raise up him.

 Come, he has hid himself among these trees
 To be consorted with the humorous night.
 Blind is his love and best befits the dark.

 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
 As maids call medlars when they laugh alone. --
 O Romeo, that she were, O, that she were
 An open-arse, thou a pop'rin pear.
 Romeo, good night. I Will to my truckle bed;
 This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep. --
 Come, shall we go?
 Go, then, for it is in vain
 To seek him here that means not to be found.




 He jests at scars that never felt a wound.



 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 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. It Is not to me she speaks.
 Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
 Having some business, do entreat 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 daylight does 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!
 Ay me.
 She speaks.
 O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art
 As glorious to this night, being over my head,
 As is a winged messenger of heaven
 Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes
 Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him
 When he bestrides the lazy puffing clouds
 And sails upon the bosom of the air.

 O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
 Deny thy father and refuse thy name,
 Or, if thou will not, be but sworn my love,
 And I Will no longer be a Capulet.

 Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

 It Is but thy name that is my enemy.
 Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
 What Is Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,
 Nor arm, nor face. O, be some other name
 Belonging to a man.
 What Is in a name? That which we call a rose
 By any other word would smell as sweet.
 So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
 Retain that dear perfection which he owes
 Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,
 And, for thy name, which is no part of thee,
 Take all myself.
 I take thee at thy word.
 Call me but love, and I Will be new baptized.
 Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

 What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night,
 So stumblest on my counsel?
 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.

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

 Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.

 How came 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.

 With love's light wings did I o'erperch 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.

 If they do see thee, they will murder thee.

 Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye
 Than twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet,
 And I am proof against their enmity.

 I would not for the world they saw thee here.

 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.

 By whose direction found'st thou out this place?

 By love, that first did prompt me to inquire.
 He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.
 I am no pilot; yet, were thou as far
 As that vast shore washed with the farthest sea,
 I should adventure for such merchandise.

 Thou know the mask of night is on my face,
 Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
 For that which thou have heard me speak tonight.
 Fain would I dwell on form; fain, fain deny
 What I have spoke. But farewell compliment.
 Do thou love me? I know thou will say Ay,
 And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st,
 Thou may prove false. At lovers' perjuries,
 They say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,
 If thou do love, pronounce it faithfully.
 Or, if thou think I am too quickly won,
 I Will frown and be perverse and say thee nay,
 So thou will woo, but else not for the world.
 In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,
 And therefore thou may think my havior light.
 But trust me, gentleman, I Will prove more true
 Than those that have more coying to be strange.
 I should have been more strange, I must confess,
 But that thou overheard'st ere I was ware
 My true-love passion. Therefore pardon me,
 And not impute this yielding to light love,
 Which the dark night has so discovered.

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

 O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,
 That monthly changes in her circled orb,
 Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

 What shall I swear by?
 Do not swear at all.
 Or, if thou will, swear by thy gracious self,
 Which is the god of my idolatry,
 And I Will believe thee.
 If my heart's dear love --

 Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,
 I have no joy of this contract tonight.
 It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden,
 Too like the lightning, which does 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.

 O, will thou leave me so unsatisfied?

 What satisfaction can thou have tonight?

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

 I gave thee mine before thou did request it,
 And yet I would it were to give again.

 Would thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?

 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. --
 Anon, good nurse. -- Sweet Montague, be true.
 Stay but a little; I will come again.

 O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,
 Being in night, all this is but a dream,
 Too flattering sweet to be substantial.




 Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.
 If that thy bent of love be honorable,
 Thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow,
 By one that I Will procure to come to thee,
 Where and what time thou will perform the rite,
 And all my fortunes at thy foot I Will lay
 And follow thee my lord throughout the world.
 Madam.

 I come anon. -- But if thou meanest not well,
 I do beseech thee --
 Madam.
 By and by, I come. --
 To cease thy strife and leave me to my grief.
 Tomorrow will I send.
 So thrive my soul --
 A thousand times good night.

 A thousand times the worse to want thy light.
 Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their
 books,
 But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.





 Hist, Romeo, hist! O, for a falc'ner'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 lies
 And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine
 With repetition of My Romeo!

 It is my soul that calls upon my name.
 How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
 Like softest music to attending ears.

 Romeo.
 My dear.
 What o'clock tomorrow
 Shall I send to thee?
 By the hour of nine.

 I will not fail. It Is twenty year till then.
 I have forgot why I did call thee back.

 Let me stand here till thou remember it.

 I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,
 Rememb'ring how I love thy company.

 And I Will still stay, to have thee still forget,
 Forgetting any other home but this.

 It Is almost morning. I would have thee gone,
 And yet no farther than a wanton's bird,
 That lets it hop a little from his hand,
 Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,
 And with a silken thread plucks it back again,
 So loving-jealous of his liberty.

 I would I were thy bird.
 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.


 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.




 The gray-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,
 Check'ring the eastern clouds with streaks of light,
 And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reels
 From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels.
 Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye,
 The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry,
 I must upfill this osier cage of ours
 With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.
 The Earth that is nature's mother is her tomb;
 What is her burying grave, that is her womb;
 And from her womb children of diverse 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 naught so vile that on the Earth does live
 But to the Earth some special good does give;
 Nor aught so good but, strained from that fair use,
 Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.
 Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,
 And vice sometime by action dignified.



 Within the infant rind of this weak flower
 Poison has residence and medicine power:
 For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each
 part;
 Being tasted, stays all senses with the heart.
 Two such opposed kings 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.

 Good morrow, father.
 Benedicite.
 What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
 Young son, it argues a distempered head
 So soon to bid Good morrow to thy bed.
 Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,
 And, where care lodges, sleep will never lie;
 But where unbruised youth with unstuffed brain
 Does couch his limbs, there golden sleep does
 reign.
 Therefore thy earliness does me assure
 Thou art uproused with some distemp'rature,
 Or, if not so, then here I hit it right:
 Our Romeo has not been in bed tonight.

 That last is true. The sweeter rest was mine.

 God pardon sin! Wast thou with Rosaline?

 With Rosaline, my ghostly father? No.
 I have forgot that name and that name's woe.

 That Is my good son. But where have thou been
 then?

 I Will tell thee ere thou ask it me again.
 I have been feasting with mine enemy,
 Where on a sudden one has wounded me
 That Is by me wounded. Both our remedies
 Within thy help and holy physic lies.
 I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo,
 My intercession likewise steads my foe.

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

 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 combined, save what thou must combine
 By holy marriage. When and where and how
 We met, we wooed, and made exchange of vow
 I Will tell thee as we pass, but this I pray,
 That thou consent to marry us today.

 Holy Saint Francis, what a change is here!
 Is Rosaline, that thou did 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
 Has washed thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!
 How much salt water thrown away in waste
 To season love, that of it does not taste!
 The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,
 Thy old groans yet ringing in mine ancient ears.
 Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain does sit
 Of an old tear that is not washed off yet.
 If ever thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,
 Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline.
 And art thou changed? Pronounce this sentence
 then:
 Women may fall when there is no strength in men.

 Thou chid'st me often for loving Rosaline.

 For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.

 And bad'st me bury love.
 Not in a grave
 To lay one in, another out to have.

 I pray thee, chide me not. Her I love now
 Does grace for grace and love for love allow.
 The other did not so.
 O, she knew well
 Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell.
 But come, young waverer, come, go with me.
 In one respect I Will thy assistant be,
 For this alliance may so happy prove
 To turn your households' rancor to pure love.

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

 Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast.




 Where the devil should this Romeo be?
 Came he not home tonight?

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

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

 Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet,
 Has sent a letter to his father's house.
 A challenge, on my life.
 Romeo will answer it.
 Any man that can write may answer a letter.
 Nay, he will answer the letter's master, how
 he dares, being dared.
 Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead,
 stabbed 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 butt shaft. And
 is he a man to encounter Tybalt?
 Why, what is Tybalt?
 More than prince of cats. O, he is the courageous
 captain of compliments. He fights as you sing
 prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion.
 He rests his minim rests, one, two, and the third in
 your bosom -- the very 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
, the, the!
 The what?
 The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting
 phantasimes, these new tuners of accent: By
 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,
 who stand so much on the new form
 that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O their
 bones, their bones!



 Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo.
 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 a kitchen wench (marry, she had a better love
 to berhyme her), Dido a dowdy, Cleopatra a gypsy,
 Helen and Hero hildings and harlots, Thisbe a gray
 eye or so, but not to the purpose. -- Signior Romeo,
. There Is a French salutation to your French
 slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.
 Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit
 did I give you?
 The slip, sir, the slip. Can you not conceive?
 Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was
 great, and in such a case as mine a man may strain
 courtesy.
 That Is as much as to say such a case as
 yours constrains a man to bow in the hams.
 Meaning, to curtsy.
 Thou have most kindly hit it.
 A most courteous exposition.
 Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.
 Pink for flower.
 Right.
 Why, then is my pump well flowered.
 Sure wit, follow me this jest now till thou
 have worn out thy pump, that when the single sole
 of it is worn, the jest may remain, after the wearing,
 solely singular.
 O single-soled jest, solely singular for the
 singleness.
 Come between us, good Benvolio. My wits
 faints.
 Switch and spurs, switch and spurs, or I Will cry
 a match.
 Nay, if our wits run the wild-goose chase, I
 am done, for thou have 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?
 Thou wast never with me for anything when
 thou wast not there for the goose.
 I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.
 Nay, good goose, bite not.
 Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most
 sharp sauce.
 And is it not, then, well served into a sweet
 goose?
 O, here is a wit of cheveril that stretches
 from an inch narrow to an ell broad.
 I stretch it out for that word broad, which
 added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a
 broad goose.
 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 his
 bauble in a hole.
 Stop there, stop there.
 Thou desire me to stop in my tale against
 the hair.
 Thou would else have made thy tale large.
 O, thou art deceived. I would have made it
 short, for I was come to the whole depth of my tale
 and meant indeed to occupy the argument no
 longer.



 Here Is goodly gear. A sail, a sail!
 Two, two -- a shirt and a smock.
 Peter.
 Anon.
 My fan, Peter.
 Good Peter, to hide her face, for her fan's
 the fairer face.
 God you good morrow, gentlemen.
 God you good even, fair gentlewoman.
 Is it good even?
 It Is no less, I tell you, for the bawdy hand of
 the dial is now upon the prick of noon.
 Out upon you! What a man are you?
 One, gentlewoman, that God has made, himself
 to mar.
 By my troth, it is well said: for himself to
 mar, quoth he? Gentlemen, can any of you tell me
 where I may find the young Romeo?
 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.
 You say well.
 Yea, is the worst well? Very well took, in
 faith, wisely, wisely.
 If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with
 you.
 She will indite him to some supper.
 A bawd, a bawd, a bawd. So ho!
 What have thou found?
 No hare, sir, unless a hare, sir, in a Lenten
 pie that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent.
 An old hare hoar,
 And an old hare hoar,
 Is very good meat in Lent.
 But a hare that is hoar
 Is too much for a score
 When it hoars ere it be spent.
 Romeo, will you come to your father's? We'll to
 dinner thither.
 I will follow you.
 Farewell, ancient lady. Farewell, lady, lady,
 lady.
 I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this
 that was so full of his ropery?
 A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself
 talk and will speak more in a minute than he will
 stand to in a month.
 An he speak anything against me, I Will take him
 down, an he were lustier than he is, and twenty
 such jacks. An if I cannot, I Will find those that shall.
 Scurvy knave, I am none of his flirt-gills; I am none
 of his skains-mates. And thou must stand
 by too and suffer every knave to use me at his
 pleasure.
 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.
 Now, before God, I am so vexed that every part
 about me quivers. Scurvy knave! Pray
 you, sir, a word. And, as I told you, my young lady
 bid me inquire you out. What she bid me say, I will
 keep to myself. But first let me tell you, if you
 should lead her in a fool's paradise, as they say, it
 were a very gross kind of behavior, 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.
 Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress.
 I protest unto thee --
 Good heart, and in faith I will tell her as much.
 Lord, Lord, she will be a joyful woman.
 What will thou tell her, nurse? Thou do not
 mark me.
 I will tell her, sir, that you do protest, which, as
 I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer.
 Bid her devise
 Some means to come to shrift this afternoon,
 And there she shall at Friar Lawrence' cell
 Be shrived and married. Here is for thy pains.

 No, truly, sir, not a penny.
 Go to, I say you shall.

 This afternoon, sir? Well, she shall be there.

 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 topgallant of my joy
 Must be my convoy in the secret night.
 Farewell. Be trusty, and I Will quit thy pains.
 Farewell. Commend me to thy mistress.

 Now, God in heaven bless thee! Hark you, sir.
 What say thou, my dear nurse?

 Is your man secret? Did you never hear say
 Two may keep counsel, putting one away?

 Warrant thee, my man's as true as steel.
 Well, sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady. Lord,
 Lord, when 'twas a little prating thing -- O, there is
 a nobleman in town, one Paris, that would fain lay
 knife aboard, but she, good soul, had as lief see a
 toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes
 and tell her that Paris is the properer man, but I Will
 warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any
 clout in the versal world. Does not rosemary and
 Romeo begin both with a letter?
 Ay, nurse, what of that? Both with an.
 Ah, mocker, that is the dog's name. is for
 the -- No, I know it begins with some other letter,
 and she has the prettiest sententious of it, of you
 and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it.
 Commend me to thy lady.
 Ay, a thousand times. -- Peter.
 Anon.
 Before and apace.




 The clock struck nine when I did send the Nurse.
 In half an hour she promised to return.
 Perchance she cannot meet him. That Is not so.
 O, she is lame! Love's heralds should be thoughts,
 Which ten times faster glides than the sun's beams,
 Driving back shadows over louring hills.
 Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love,
 And therefore has the wind-swift Cupid wings.
 Now is the sun upon the highmost hill
 Of this day's journey, and from nine till twelve
 Is three long hours, yet she is not come.
 Had she affections and warm youthful blood,
 She would be as swift in motion as a ball;
 My words would bandy her to my sweet love,
 And his to me.
 But old folks, many feign as they were dead,
 Unwieldy, slow, heavy, and pale as lead.



 O God, she comes! -- O, honey nurse, what news?
 Have thou met with him? Send thy man away.
 Peter, stay at the gate.

 Now, good sweet nurse -- O Lord, why look thou
 sad?
 Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily.
 If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news
 By playing it to me with so sour a face.

 I am aweary. Give me leave awhile.
 Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunt have I!

 I would thou had my bones, and I thy news.
 Nay, come, I pray thee, speak. Good, good nurse,
 speak.

 Jesu, what haste! Can you not stay awhile?
 Do you not see that I am out of breath?

 How art thou out of breath, when thou have breath
 To say to me that thou art out of breath?
 The excuse that thou do make in this delay
 Is longer than the tale thou do excuse.
 Is thy news good or bad? Answer to that.
 Say either, and I Will stay the circumstance.
 Let me be satisfied; is 't good or bad?
 Well, you have made a simple choice. You know
 not how to choose a man. Romeo? No, not he.
 Though his face be better than any man's, yet his leg
 excels all men's, and for a hand and a foot and a
 body, though they be not to be talked on, yet they
 are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy,
 but I Will warrant him as gentle as a lamb. Go thy
 ways, wench. Serve God. What, have you dined at
 home?

 No, no. But all this did I know before.
 What says he of our marriage? What of that?

 Lord, how my head aches! What a head have I!
 It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.
 My back of to other side! Ah, my back, my back!
 Beshrew your heart for sending me about
 To catch my death with jaunting up and down.

 IN faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.
 Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my
 love?
 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?

 Where is my mother? Why, she is within.
 Where should she be? How oddly thou reply:
 Your love says, like an honest gentleman,
 Where is your mother?
 O God's lady dear,
 Are you so hot? Marry, come up, I trow.
 Is this the poultice for my aching bones?
 Henceforward do your messages yourself.

 Here Is such a coil. Come, what says Romeo?

 Have you got leave to go to shrift today?
 I have.

 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 Will 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 burden soon at night.
 Go. I Will to dinner. Hie you to the cell.

 Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell.




 So smile the heavens upon this holy act
 That after-hours with sorrow chide us not.

 Amen, amen. But come what sorrow can,
 It cannot countervail the 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.

 These violent delights have violent ends
 And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
 Which, as they kiss, consume. The sweetest honey
 Is loathsome in his own deliciousness
 And in the taste confounds the appetite.
 Therefore love moderately. Long love does so.
 Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.



 Here comes the lady. O, so light a foot
 Will never wear out the everlasting flint.
 A lover may bestride the gossamers
 That idles in the wanton summer air,
 And yet not fall, so light is vanity.

 Good even to my ghostly confessor.

 Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.

 As much to him, else is his thanks too much.

 Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy
 Be heaped like mine, and that thy skill be more
 To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath
 This neighbor air, and let rich music's tongue
 Unfold the imagined happiness that both
 Receive in either by this dear encounter.

 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 sum of half my wealth.

 Come, come with me, and we will make short work,
 For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone
 Till Holy Church incorporate two in one.





 I pray thee, good Mercutio, let us retire.
 The day is hot, the Capels are abroad,
 And if we meet we shall not 'scape a brawl,
 For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.
 Thou art like one of these fellows that, when
 he enters the confines of a tavern, claps me his
 sword upon the table and says God send me no
 need of thee and, by the operation of the second
 cup, draws him on the drawer when indeed there is
 no need.
 Am I like such a fellow?
 Come, come, thou art as hot a jack in thy
 mood as any in Italy, and as soon moved to be
 moody, and as soon moody to be moved.
 And what to?
 Nay, an there were two such, we should
 have none shortly, for one would kill the other.
 Thou -- why, thou will quarrel with a man that
 has a hair more or a hair less in his beard than
 thou have. Thou will quarrel with a man for cracking
 nuts, having no other reason but because thou
 have hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy
 out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as
 an egg is full of meat, and yet thy head has been
 beaten as addle as an egg for quarreling. Thou have
 quarreled with a man for coughing in the street
 because he has wakened thy dog that has lain
 asleep in the sun. Did thou not fall out with a tailor
 for wearing his new doublet before Easter? With
 another, for tying his new shoes with old ribbon?
 And yet thou will tutor me from quarreling?
 An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any
 man should buy the fee simple of my life for an
 hour and a quarter.
 The fee simple? O simple!



 By my head, here comes the Capulets.
 By my heel, I care not.

 Follow me close, for I will speak to them. --
 Gentlemen, good even. A word with one of you.
 And but one word with one of us? Couple it
 with something. Make it a word and a blow.
 You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an
 you will give me occasion.
 Could you not take some occasion without
 giving?
 Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo.
 Consort? What, do thou make us minstrels?
 An thou make minstrels of us, look to hear
 nothing but discords. Here Is my fiddlestick; here is
 that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!

 We talk here in the public haunt of men.
 Either withdraw unto some private place,
 Or reason coldly of your grievances,
 Or else depart. Here all eyes gaze on us.

 Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.
 I will not budge for no man's pleasure, I.




 Well, peace be with you, sir. Here comes my man.

 But I Will be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery.
 Marry, go before to field, he will be your follower.
 Your Worship in that sense may call him man.

 Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford
 No better term than this: thou art a villain.

 Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee
 Does much excuse the appertaining rage
 To such a greeting. Villain am I none.
 Therefore farewell. I see thou know me not.

 Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries
 That thou have done me. Therefore turn and draw.

 I do protest I never injured thee
 But love thee better than thou can devise
 Till thou shall know the reason of my love.
 And so, good Capulet, which name I tender
 As dearly as mine own, be satisfied.

 O calm, dishonorable, vile submission!
 carries it away.
 Tybalt, you ratcatcher, will you walk?
 What would thou have with me?
 Good king of cats, nothing but one of your
 nine lives, that I mean to make bold withal, and, as
 you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the
 eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher
 by the ears? Make haste, lest mine be about your
 ears ere it be out.
 I am for you.

 Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.
 Come, sir, your

 Draw, Benvolio, beat down their weapons.

 Gentlemen, for shame forbear this outrage!
 Tybalt! Mercutio! The Prince expressly has
 Forbid this bandying in Verona streets.
 Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!


 Away, Tybalt!

 I am hurt.
 A plague of both houses! I am sped.
 Is he gone and has nothing?
 What, art thou hurt?

 Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, it is enough.
 Where is my page? -- Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.


 Courage, man, the hurt cannot be much.
 No, it is not so deep as a well, nor so wide as
 a church door, but it is enough. 'Twill serve. Ask for
 me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I
 am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague of
 both your houses! Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a
 cat, to scratch a man to death! A braggart, a rogue, a
 villain that fights by the book of arithmetic! Why the
 devil came you between us? I was hurt under your
 arm.
 I thought all for the best.

 Help me into some house, Benvolio,
 Or I shall faint. A plague of both your houses!
 They have made worms' meat of me.
 I have it, and soundly, too. Your houses!


 This gentleman, the Prince's near ally,
 My very friend, has got this mortal hurt
 In my behalf. My reputation stained
 With Tybalt's slander -- Tybalt, that an hour
 Has been my cousin! O sweet Juliet,
 Thy beauty has made me effeminate
 And in my temper softened valor's steel.




 O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio is dead.
 That gallant spirit has aspired the clouds,
 Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.

 This day's black fate on more days does depend.
 This but begins the woe others must end.




 Here comes the furious Tybalt back again.

 Alive in triumph, and Mercutio slain!
 Away to heaven, respective lenity,
 And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now. --
 Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again
 That late thou gave me, for Mercutio's soul
 Is but a little way above our heads,
 Staying for thine to keep him company.
 Either thou or I, or both, must go with him.

 Thou wretched boy that did consort him here
 Shall with him hence.
 This shall determine that.


 Romeo, away, begone!
 The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.
 Stand not amazed. The Prince will doom thee death
 If thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away.

 O, I am Fortune's fool!
 Why do thou stay?





 Which way ran he that killed Mercutio?
 Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he?

 There lies that Tybalt.
 Up, sir, go with me.
 I charge thee in the Prince's name, obey.




 Where are the vile beginners of this fray?

 O noble prince, I can discover all
 The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl.
 There lies the man, slain by young Romeo,
 That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.

 Tybalt, my cousin, O my brother's child!
 O prince! O cousin! Husband! O, the blood is spilled
 Of my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true,
 For blood of ours, shed blood of Montague.
 O cousin, cousin!

 Benvolio, who began this bloody fray?

 Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo's hand did slay --
 Romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink
 How nice the quarrel was, and urged withal
 Your high displeasure. All this uttered
 With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bowed
 Could not take truce with the unruly spleen
 Of Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts
 With piercing steel at bold Mercutio's breast,
 Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point
 And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats
 Cold death aside and with the other sends
 It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity
 Retorts it. Romeo he cries aloud
 Hold, friends! Friends, part! and swifter than his
 tongue
 His agile arm beats down their fatal points,
 And 'twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm
 An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life
 Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled.
 But by and by comes back to Romeo,
 Who had but newly entertained revenge,
 And to 't they go like lightning, for ere I
 Could draw to part them was stout Tybalt slain,
 And, as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly.
 This is the truth, or let Benvolio die.

 He is a kinsman to the Montague.
 Affection makes him false; he speaks not true.
 Some twenty of them fought in this black strife,
 And all those twenty could but kill one life.
 I beg for justice, which thou, prince, must give.
 Romeo slew Tybalt; Romeo must not live.

 Romeo slew him; he slew Mercutio.
 Who now the price of his dear blood does owe?

 Not Romeo, Prince; he was Mercutio's friend.
 His fault concludes but what the law should end,
 The life of Tybalt.
 And for that offense
 Immediately we do exile him hence.
 I have an interest in your hearts' proceeding:
 My blood for your rude brawls does lie a-bleeding.
 But I Will amerce you with so strong a fine
 That you shall all repent the loss of mine.
 I will be deaf to pleading and excuses.
 Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses.
 Therefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste,
 Else, when he is found, that hour is his last.
 Bear hence this body and attend our will.
 Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.





 Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
 Toward Phoebus' lodging. Such a wagoner
 As Phaeton would whip you to the west
 And bring in cloudy night immediately.
 Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,
 That runaways' eyes may wink, and Romeo
 Leap to these arms, untalked of and unseen.
 Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
 By their own beauties, or, if love be blind,
 It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,
 Thou sober-suited matron all in black,
 And learn me how to lose a winning match
 Played for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.
 Hood my unmanned blood, bating in my cheeks,
 With thy black mantle till strange love grow bold,
 Think true love acted simple modesty.
 Come, night. Come, Romeo. Come, thou day in
 night,
 For thou will lie upon the wings of night
 Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back.
 Come, gentle night; come, loving black-browed
 night,
 Give me my Romeo, and when I shall die,
 Take him and cut him out in little stars,
 And he will make the face of heaven so fine
 That all the world will be in love with night
 And pay no worship to the garish sun.
 O, I have bought the mansion of a love
 But not possessed it, and, though I am sold,
 Not yet enjoyed. So tedious is this day
 As is the night before some festival
 To an impatient child that has new robes
 And may not wear them.



 O, here comes my nurse,
 And she brings news, and every tongue that speaks
 But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence. --
 Now, nurse, what news? What have thou there? The
 cords
 That Romeo bid thee fetch?
 Ay, ay, the cords.


 Ay me, what news? Why do thou wring thy hands?

 Ah weraday, he is dead, he is dead, he is dead!
 We are undone, lady, we are undone.
 Alack the day, he is gone, he is killed, he is dead.

 Can heaven be so envious?
 Romeo can,
 Though heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo,
 Whoever would have thought it? Romeo!

 What devil art thou that do torment me thus?
 This torture should be roared in dismal hell.
 Has Romeo slain himself? Say thou but Ay,
 And that bare vowel I shall poison more
 Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice.
 I am not I if there be such an I,
 Or those eyes shut that makes thee answer Ay.
 If he be slain, say Ay, or if not, No.
 Brief sounds determine my weal or woe.

 I saw the wound. I saw it with mine eyes
 (God save the mark!) here on his manly breast --
 A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse,
 Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaubed in blood,
 All in gore blood. I swooned at the sight.

 O break, my heart, poor bankrout, break at once!
 To prison, eyes; never look on liberty.
 Vile earth to earth resign; end motion here,
 And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier.

 O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had!
 O courteous Tybalt, honest gentleman,
 That ever I should live to see thee dead!

 What storm is this that blows so contrary?
 Is Romeo slaughtered and is Tybalt dead?
 My dearest cousin, and my dearer lord?
 Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom,
 For who is living if those two are gone?

 Tybalt is gone and Romeo banished.
 Romeo that killed him -- he is banished.

 O God, did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood?

 It did, it did, alas the day, it did.

 O serpent heart hid with a flow'ring face!
 Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?
 Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical!
 Dove-feathered raven, wolvish-ravening lamb!
 Despised substance of divinest show!
 Just opposite to what thou justly seem,
 A damned saint, an honorable villain.
 O nature, what had thou to do in hell
 When thou did bower the spirit of a fiend
 In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?
 Was ever book containing such vile matter
 So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell
 In such a gorgeous palace!
 There Is no trust,
 No faith, no honesty in men. All perjured,
 All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.
 Ah, where is my man? Give me some aqua vitae.
 These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me
 old.
 Shame come to Romeo!
 Blistered be thy tongue
 For such a wish! He was not born to shame.
 Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit,
 For it is a throne where honor may be crowned
 Sole monarch of the universal Earth.
 O, what a beast was I to chide at him!

 Will you speak well of him that killed your cousin?

 Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?
 Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy
 name
 When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it?
 But wherefore, villain, did thou kill my cousin?
 That villain cousin would have killed my husband.
 Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring;
 Your tributary drops belong to woe,
 Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.
 My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain,
 And Tybalt's dead, that would have slain my
 husband.
 All this is comfort. Wherefore weep I then?
 Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death,
 That murdered me. I would forget it fain,
 But, O, it presses to my memory
 Like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds:
 Tybalt is dead and Romeo banished.
 That banished, that one word banished,
 Has slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death
 Was woe enough if it had ended there;
 Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship
 And needly will be ranked with other griefs,
 Why followed not, when she said Tybalt's dead,
 Thy father or thy mother, nay, or both,
 Which modern lamentation might have moved?
 But with a rearward following Tybalt's death,
 Romeo is banished. To speak that word
 Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,
 All slain, all dead. Romeo is banished.
 There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,
 In that word's death. No words can that woe sound.
 Where is my father and my mother, nurse?

 Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corse.
 Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.

 Wash they his wounds with tears? Mine shall be
 spent,
 When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment. --
 Take up those cords.

 Poor ropes, you are beguiled,
 Both you and I, for Romeo is exiled.
 He made you for a highway to my bed,
 But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.
 Come, cords -- come, nurse. I Will to my wedding bed,
 And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!

 Hie to your chamber. I Will find Romeo
 To comfort you. I wot well where he is.
 Hark you, your Romeo will be here at night.
 I Will to him. He is hid at Lawrence' cell.

 O, find him!
 Give this ring to my true knight
 And bid him come to take his last farewell.




 Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man.
 Affliction is enamored of thy parts,
 And thou art wedded to calamity.



 Father, what news? What is the Prince's doom?
 What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand
 That I yet know not?
 Too familiar
 Is my dear son with such sour company.
 I bring thee tidings of the Prince's doom.

 What less than doomsday is the Prince's doom?

 A gentler judgment vanished from his lips:
 Not body's death, but body's banishment.

 Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say death,
 For exile has more terror in his look,
 Much more than death. Do not say banishment.

 Here from Verona art thou banished.
 Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.

 There is no world without Verona walls
 But purgatory, torture, hell itself.
 Hence banished is banished from the world,
 And world's exile is death. Then banished
 Is death mistermed. Calling death banished,
 Thou cutt'st my head off with a golden ax
 And smilest upon the stroke that murders me.

 O deadly sin, O rude unthankfulness!
 Thy fault our law calls death, but the kind prince,
 Taking thy part, has rushed aside the law
 And turned that black word death to
 banishment.
 This is dear mercy, and thou see it not.

 It Is torture and not mercy. Heaven is here
 Where Juliet lives, and every cat and dog
 And little mouse, every unworthy thing,
 Live here in heaven and may look on her,
 But Romeo may not. More validity,
 More honorable state, more courtship lives
 In carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize
 On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand
 And steal immortal blessing from her lips,
 Who even in pure and vestal modesty
 Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin;
 But Romeo may not; he is banished.
 Flies may do this, but I from this must fly.
 They are free men, but I am banished.
 And say thou yet that exile is not death?
 Had thou no poison mixed, no sharp-ground
 knife,
 No sudden mean of death, though never so mean,
 But banished to kill me? Banished?
 O friar, the damned use that word in hell.
 Howling attends it. How have thou the heart,
 Being a divine, a ghostly confessor,
 A sin absolver, and my friend professed,
 To mangle me with that word banished?

 Thou fond mad man, hear me a little speak.

 O, thou will speak again of banishment.

 I Will give thee armor to keep off that word,
 Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy,
 To comfort thee, though thou art banished.

 Yet banished? Hang up philosophy.
 Unless philosophy can make a Juliet,
 Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom,
 It helps not, it prevails not. Talk no more.

 O, then I see that madmen have no ears.

 How should they when that wise men have no eyes?

 Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.

 Thou can not speak of that thou do not feel.
 Were thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,
 An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,
 Doting like me, and like me banished,
 Then might thou speak, then might thou tear thy
 hair
 And fall upon the ground as I do now,

 Taking the measure of an unmade grave.


 Arise. One knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself.

 Not I, unless the breath of heartsick groans,
 Mistlike, enfold me from the search of eyes.


 Hark, how they knock! -- Who Is there? -- Romeo,
 arise.
 Thou will be taken. -- Stay awhile. -- Stand up.

 Run to my study. -- By and by. -- God's will,
 What simpleness is this? -- I come, I come.

 Who knocks so hard? Whence come you? What Is
 your will?

 Let me come in, and you shall know my errand.
 I come from Lady Juliet.

 Welcome, then.




 O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar,
 Where Is my lady's lord? Where Is Romeo?

 There on the ground, with his own tears made
 drunk.

 O, he is even in my mistress' case,
 Just in her case. O woeful sympathy!
 Piteous predicament! Even so lies she,
 Blubb'ring and weeping, weeping and blubb'ring. --
 Stand up, stand up. Stand an you be a man.
 For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand.
 Why should you fall into so deep an O?
 Nurse.

 Ah sir, ah sir, death's the end of all.

 Spakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her?
 Does not she think me an old murderer,
 Now I have stained the childhood of our joy
 With blood removed but little from her own?
 Where is she? And how does she? And what says
 My concealed lady to our canceled love?

 O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps,
 And now falls on her bed, and then starts up,
 And Tybalt calls, and then on Romeo cries,
 And then down falls again.
 As if that name,
 Shot from the deadly level of a gun,
 Did murder her, as that name's cursed hand
 Murdered her kinsman. -- O, tell me, friar, tell me,
 In what vile part of this anatomy
 Does my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack
 The hateful mansion.
 Hold thy desperate hand!
 Art thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art.
 Thy tears are womanish; thy wild acts denote
 The unreasonable fury of a beast.
 Unseemly woman in a seeming man,
 And ill-beseeming beast in seeming both!
 Thou have amazed me. By my holy order,
 I thought thy disposition better tempered.
 Have thou slain Tybalt? Will thou slay thyself,
 And slay thy lady that in thy life lives,
 By doing damned hate upon thyself?
 Why railest thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth,
 Since birth and heaven and earth all three do meet
 In thee at once, which thou at once would lose?
 Fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit,
 Which, like a usurer, abound'st in all
 And usest none in that true use indeed
 Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit.
 Thy noble shape is but a form of wax,
 Digressing from the valor of a man;
 Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury,
 Killing that love which thou have vowed to cherish;
 Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love,
 Misshapen in the conduct of them both,
 Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask,
 Is set afire by thine own ignorance,
 And thou dismembered with thine own defense.
 What, rouse thee, man! Thy Juliet is alive,
 For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead:
 There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee,
 But thou slewest Tybalt: there art thou happy.
 The law that threatened death becomes thy friend
 And turns it to exile: there art thou happy.
 A pack of blessings light upon thy back;
 Happiness courts thee in her best array;
 But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench,
 Thou pouts upon thy fortune and thy love.
 Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.
 Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed.
 Ascend her chamber. Hence and comfort her.
 But look thou stay not till the watch be set,
 For then thou can not pass to Mantua,
 Where thou shall live till we can find a time
 To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,
 Beg pardon of the Prince, and call thee back
 With twenty hundred thousand times more joy
 Than thou went forth in lamentation. --
 Go before, nurse. Commend me to thy lady,
 And bid her hasten all the house to bed,
 Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto.
 Romeo is coming.

 O Lord, I could have stayed here all the night
 To hear good counsel. O, what learning is! --
 My lord, I Will tell my lady you will come.

 Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.

 Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir.

 Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late.


 How well my comfort is revived by this!

 Go hence, good night -- and here stands all your
 state:
 Either be gone before the watch be set
 Or by the break of day disguised from hence.
 Sojourn in Mantua. I Will find out your man,
 And he shall signify from time to time
 Every good hap to you that chances here.
 Give me thy hand. It Is late. Farewell. Good night.

 But that a joy past joy calls out on me,
 It were a grief so brief to part with thee.
 Farewell.




 Things have fallen out, sir, so unluckily
 That we have had no time to move our daughter.
 Look you, she loved her kinsman Tybalt dearly,
 And so did I. Well, we were born to die.
 It Is very late. She Will not come down tonight.
 I promise you, but for your company,
 I would have been abed an hour ago.

 These times of woe afford no times to woo. --
 Madam, good night. Commend me to your
 daughter.

 I will, and know her mind early tomorrow.
 Tonight she is mewed up to her heaviness.

 Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender
 Of my child's love. I think she will be ruled
 In all respects by me. Nay, more, I doubt it not. --
 Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed.
 Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love,
 And bid her -- mark you me? -- on Wednesday
 next --
 But soft, what day is this?
 Monday, my lord.

 Monday, ha ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon.
 OF Thursday let it be. -- OF Thursday, tell her,
 She shall be married to this noble earl. --
 Will you be ready? Do you like this haste?
 We'll keep no great ado: a friend or two.
 For hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,
 It may be thought we held him carelessly,
 Being our kinsman, if we revel much.
 Therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends,
 And there an end. But what say you to Thursday?

 My lord, I would that Thursday were tomorrow.

 Well, get you gone. OF Thursday be it, then.
 Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed.
 Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day. --
 Farewell, my lord. -- Light to my chamber, ho! --
 Before me, it is so very late that we
 May call it early by and by. -- Good night.




 Will thou be gone? It is not yet near day.
 It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
 That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.
 Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree.
 Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

 It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
 No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
 Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
 Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
 Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops.
 I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

 Yond light is not daylight, I know it, I.
 It is some meteor that the sun exhaled
 To be to thee this night a torchbearer
 And light thee on thy way to Mantua.
 Therefore stay yet. Thou need'st not to be gone.

 Let me be taken; let me be put to death.
 I am content, so thou will have it so.
 I Will say yon gray is not the morning's eye;
 It Is but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow.
 Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat
 The vaulty heaven so high above our heads.
 I have more care to stay than will to go.
 Come death and welcome. Juliet wills it so.
 How is 't, my soul? Let Us talk. It is not day.

 It is, it is. Hie hence, begone, away!
 It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
 Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
 Some say the lark makes sweet division.
 This does not so, for she divides us.
 Some say the lark and loathed toad changed eyes.
 O, now I would they had changed voices too,
 Since arm from arm that voice does us affray,
 Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day.
 O, now begone. More light and light it grows.

 More light and light, more dark and dark our woes.



 Madam.
 Nurse?

 Your lady mother is coming to your chamber.
 The day is broke; be wary; look about.

 Then, window, let day in, and let life out.

 Farewell, farewell. One kiss and I Will descend.


 Art thou gone so? Love, lord, ay husband, friend!
 I must hear from thee every day in the hour,
 For in a minute there are many days.
 O, by this count I shall be much in years
 Ere I again behold my Romeo.
 Farewell.
 I will omit no opportunity
 That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

 O, think thou we shall ever meet again?

 I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
 For sweet discourses in our times to come.

 O God, I have an ill-divining soul!
 Methinks I see thee, now thou art so low,
 As one dead in the bottom of a tomb.
 Either my eyesight fails or thou look pale.

 And trust me, love, in my eye so do you.
 Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu.

 O Fortune, Fortune, all men call thee fickle.
 If thou art fickle, what do thou with him
 That is renowned for faith? Be fickle, Fortune,
 For then I hope thou will not keep him long,
 But send him back.



 Ho, daughter, are you up?

 Who is 't that calls? It is my lady mother.
 Is she not down so late or up so early?
 What unaccustomed cause procures her hither?


 Why, how now, Juliet?
 Madam, I am not well.

 Evermore weeping for your cousin's death?
 What, will thou wash him from his grave with tears?
 An if thou could, thou could not make him live.
 Therefore have done. Some grief shows much of
 love,
 But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

 Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.

 So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend
 Which you weep for.
 Feeling so the loss,
 I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.

 Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death
 As that the villain lives which slaughtered him.

 What villain, madam?
 That same villain, Romeo.

 Villain and he be many miles asunder. --
 God pardon him. I do with all my heart,
 And yet no man like he does grieve my heart.

 That is because the traitor murderer lives.

 Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands.
 Would none but I might venge my cousin's death!

 We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not.
 Then weep no more. I Will send to one in Mantua,
 Where that same banished runagate does live,
 Shall give him such an unaccustomed dram
 That he shall soon keep Tybalt company.
 And then, I hope, thou will be satisfied.

 Indeed, I never shall be satisfied
 With Romeo till I behold him -- dead --
 Is my poor heart, so for a kinsman vexed.
 Madam, if you could find out but a man
 To bear a poison, I would temper it,
 That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof,
 Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors
 To hear him named and cannot come to him
 To wreak the love I bore my cousin
 Upon his body that has slaughtered him.

 Find thou the means, and I Will find such a man.
 But now I Will tell thee joyful tidings, girl.

 And joy comes well in such a needy time.
 What are they, beseech your Ladyship?

 Well, well, thou have a careful father, child,
 One who, to put thee from thy heaviness,
 Has sorted out a sudden day of joy
 That thou expects not, nor I looked not for.

 Madam, in happy time! What day is that?

 Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn
 The gallant, young, and noble gentleman,
 The County Paris, at Saint Peter's Church
 Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.

 Now, by Saint Peter's Church, and Peter too,
 He shall not make me there a joyful bride!
 I wonder at this haste, that I must wed
 Ere he that should be husband comes to woo.
 I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam,
 I will not marry yet, and when I do I swear
 It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,
 Rather than Paris. These are news indeed!

 Here comes your father. Tell him so yourself,
 And see how he will take it at your hands.




 When the sun sets, the earth does drizzle dew,
 But for the sunset of my brother's son
 It rains downright.
 How now, a conduit, girl? What, still in tears?
 Evermore show'ring? In one little body
 Thou counterfeits a bark, a sea, a wind.
 For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,
 Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is,
 Sailing in this salt flood; the winds thy sighs,
 Who, raging with thy tears and they with them,
 Without a sudden calm, will overset
 Thy tempest-tossed body. -- How now, wife?
 Have you delivered to her our decree?

 Ay, sir, but she will none, she gives you thanks.
 I would the fool were married to her grave.

 Soft, take me with you, take me with you, wife.
 How, will she none? Does she not give us thanks?
 Is she not proud? Does she not count her blessed,
 Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought
 So worthy a gentleman to be her bride?

 Not proud you have, but thankful that you have.
 Proud can I never be of what I hate,
 But thankful even for hate that is meant love.

 How, how, how, how? Chopped logic? What is this?
 Proud, and I thank you, and I thank you not,
 And yet not proud? Mistress minion you,
 Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,
 But fettle your fine joints against Thursday next
 To go with Paris to Saint Peter's Church,
 Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
 Out, you green sickness carrion! Out, you baggage!
 You tallow face!
 Fie, fie, what, are you mad?

 Good father, I beseech you on my knees,
 Hear me with patience but to speak a word.

 Hang thee, young baggage, disobedient wretch!
 I tell thee what: get thee to church of Thursday,
 Or never after look me in the face.
 Speak not; reply not; do not answer me.
 My fingers itch. -- Wife, we scarce thought us
 blessed
 That God had lent us but this only child,
 But now I see this one is one too much,
 And that we have a curse in having her.
 Out on her, hilding.
 God in heaven bless her!
 You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.

 And why, my Lady Wisdom? Hold your tongue.
 Good Prudence, smatter with your gossips, go.

 I speak no treason.
 O, God 'i' g' eden!

 May not one speak?
 Peace, you mumbling fool!
 Utter your gravity over a gossip's bowl,
 For here we need it not.
 You are too hot.
 God's bread, it makes me mad.
 Day, night, hour, tide, time, work, play,
 Alone, in company, still my care has been
 To have her matched. And having now provided
 A gentleman of noble parentage,
 Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly ligned,
 Stuffed, as they say, with honorable parts,
 Proportioned as one's thought would wish a man --
 And then to have a wretched puling fool,
 A whining mammet, in her fortune's tender,
 To answer I Will not wed. I cannot love.
 I am too young. I pray you, pardon me.
 But, an you will not wed, I Will pardon you!
 Graze where you will, you shall not house with me.
 Look to 't; think on 't. I do not use to jest.
 Thursday is near. Lay hand on heart; advise.
 An you be mine, I Will give you to my friend.
 An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,
 For, by my soul, I Will never acknowledge thee,
 Nor what is mine shall never do thee good.
 Trust to 't; bethink you. I Will not be forsworn.


 Is there no pity sitting in the clouds
 That sees into the bottom of my grief? --
 O sweet my mother, cast me not away.
 Delay this marriage for a month, a week,
 Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed
 In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.

 Talk not to me, for I Will not speak a word.
 Do as thou will, for I have done with thee.


 O God! O nurse, how shall this be prevented?
 My husband is on Earth, my faith in heaven.
 How shall that faith return again to Earth
 Unless that husband send it me from heaven
 By leaving Earth? Comfort me; counsel me. --
 Alack, alack, that heaven should practice stratagems
 Upon so soft a subject as myself. --
 What say thou? Have thou not a word of joy?
 Some comfort, nurse.
 Faith, here it is.
 Romeo is banished, and all the world to nothing
 That he dares never come back to challenge you,
 Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth.
 Then, since the case so stands as now it does,
 I think it best you married with the County.
 O, he is a lovely gentleman!
 Romeo's a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam,
 Has not so green, so quick, so fair an eye
 As Paris has. Beshrew my very heart,
 I think you are happy in this second match,
 For it excels your first, or, if it did not,
 Your first is dead, or 'twere as good he were
 As living here and you no use of him.

 Speak thou from thy heart?

 And from my soul too, else beshrew them both.
 Amen.
 What?

 Well, thou have comforted me marvelous much.
 Go in and tell my lady I am gone,
 Having displeased my father, to Lawrence' cell
 To make confession and to be absolved.

 Marry, I will; and this is wisely done.

 Ancient damnation, O most wicked fiend!
 Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn
 Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue
 Which she has praised him with above compare
 So many thousand times? Go, counselor.
 Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.
 I Will to the Friar to know his remedy.
 If all else fail, myself have power to die.





 On Thursday, sir? The time is very short.

 My father Capulet will have it so,
 And I am nothing slow to slack his haste.

 You say you do not know the lady's mind?
 Uneven is the course. I like it not.

 Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death,
 And therefore have I little talk of love,
 For Venus smiles not in a house of tears.
 Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous
 That she do give her sorrow so much sway,
 And in his wisdom hastes our marriage
 To stop the inundation of her tears,
 Which, too much minded by herself alone,
 May be put from her by society.
 Now do you know the reason of this haste.

 I would I knew not why it should be slowed. --
 Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.



 Happily met, my lady and my wife.

 That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.

 That may be must be, love, on Thursday next.

 What must be shall be.
 That Is a certain text.

 Come you to make confession to this father?

 To answer that, I should confess to you.

 Do not deny to him that you love me.

 I will confess to you that I love him.

 So will you, I am sure, that you love me.

 If I do so, it will be of more price
 Being spoke behind your back than to your face.

 Poor soul, thy face is much abused with tears.

 The tears have got small victory by that,
 For it was bad enough before their spite.

 Thou wrong'st it more than tears with that report.

 That is no slander, sir, which is a truth,
 And what I spoke, I spoke it to my face.

 Thy face is mine, and thou have slandered it.

 It may be so, for it is not mine own. --
 Are you at leisure, holy father, now,
 Or shall I come to you at evening Mass?

 My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now. --
 My lord, we must entreat the time alone.

 God shield I should disturb devotion! --
 Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse you.
 Till then, adieu, and keep this holy kiss.

 O, shut the door, and when thou have done so,
 Come weep with me, past hope, past care, past help.

 O Juliet, I already know thy grief.
 It strains me past the compass of my wits.
 I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,
 On Thursday next be married to this County.

 Tell me not, friar, that thou hear of this,
 Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it.
 If in thy wisdom thou can give no help,
 Do thou but call my resolution wise,
 And with this knife I Will help it presently.

 God joined my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands;
 And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo's sealed,
 Shall be the label to another deed,
 Or my true heart with treacherous revolt
 Turn to another, this shall slay them both.
 Therefore out of thy long-experienced time
 Give me some present counsel, or, behold,
 'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife
 Shall play the umpire, arbitrating that
 Which the commission of thy years and art
 Could to no issue of true honor bring.
 Be not so long to speak. I long to die
 If what thou speak speak not of remedy.

 Hold, daughter, I do spy a kind of hope,
 Which craves as desperate an execution
 As that is desperate which we would prevent.
 If, rather than to marry County Paris,
 Thou have the strength of will to slay thyself,
 Then is it likely thou will undertake
 A thing like death to chide away this shame,
 That cop'st with death himself to 'scape from it;
 And if thou dare, I Will give thee remedy.

 O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,
 From off the battlements of any tower,
 Or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk
 Where serpents are. Chain me with roaring bears,
 Or hide me nightly in a charnel house,
 O'ercovered quite with dead men's rattling bones,
 With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls.
 Or bid me go into a new-made grave
 And hide me with a dead man in his shroud
 (Things that to hear them told have made me
 tremble),
 And I will do it without fear or doubt,
 To live an unstained wife to my sweet love.

 Hold, then. Go home; be merry; give consent
 To marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow.
 Tomorrow night look that thou lie alone;
 Let not the Nurse lie with thee in thy chamber.

 Take thou this vial, being then in bed,
 And this distilling liquor drink thou off;
 When presently through all thy veins shall run
 A cold and drowsy humor; for no pulse
 Shall keep his native progress, but surcease.
 No warmth, no breath shall testify thou live.
 The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade
 To paly ashes, thy eyes' windows fall
 Like death when he shuts up the day of life.
 Each part, deprived of supple government,
 Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death,
 And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death
 Thou shall continue two and forty hours
 And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.
 Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes
 To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead.
 Then, as the manner of our country is,
 In thy best robes uncovered on the bier
 Thou shall be borne to that same ancient vault
 Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie.
 In the meantime, against thou shall awake,
 Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift,
 And hither shall he come, and he and I
 Will watch thy waking, and that very night
 Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.
 And this shall free thee from this present shame,
 If no inconstant toy nor womanish fear
 Abate thy valor in the acting it.

 Give me, give me! O, tell not me of fear!

 Hold, get you gone. Be strong and prosperous
 In this resolve. I Will send a friar with speed
 To Mantua with my letters to thy lord.

 Love give me strength, and strength shall help
 afford.
 Farewell, dear father.






 So many guests invite as here are writ.


 Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.
 You shall have none ill, sir, for I Will try if
 they can lick their fingers.
 How can thou try them so?
 Marry, sir, it is an ill cook that cannot lick
 his own fingers. Therefore he that cannot lick his
 fingers goes not with me.
 Go, begone.
 We shall be much unfurnished for this time. --
 What, is my daughter gone to Friar Lawrence?
 Ay, forsooth.

 Well, he may chance to do some good on her.
 A peevish self-willed harlotry it is.




 See where she comes from shrift with merry look.

 How now, my headstrong, where have you been
 gadding?

 Where I have learned me to repent the sin
 Of disobedient opposition
 To you and your behests, and am enjoined
 By holy Lawrence to fall prostrate here
 To beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you.
 Henceforward I am ever ruled by you.

 Send for the County. Go tell him of this.
 I Will have this knot knit up tomorrow morning.

 I met the youthful lord at Lawrence' cell
 And gave him what becomed love I might,
 Not stepping over the bounds of modesty.

 Why, I am glad on 't. This is well. Stand up.

 This is as 't should be. -- Let me see the County.
 Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither. --
 Now, before God, this reverend holy friar,
 All our whole city is much bound to him.

 Nurse, will you go with me into my closet
 To help me sort such needful ornaments
 As you think fit to furnish me tomorrow?

 No, not till Thursday. There is time enough.

 Go, nurse. Go with her. We'll to church tomorrow.


 We shall be short in our provision.
 It Is now near night.
 Tush, I will stir about,
 And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife.
 Go thou to Juliet. Help to deck up her.
 I Will not to bed tonight. Let me alone.
 I Will play the housewife for this once. -- What ho! --
 They are all forth. Well, I will walk myself
 To County Paris, to prepare up him
 Against tomorrow. My heart is wondrous light
 Since this same wayward girl is so reclaimed.





 Ay, those attires are best. But, gentle nurse,
 I pray thee leave me to myself tonight,
 For I have need of many orisons
 To move the heavens to smile upon my state,
 Which, well thou know, is cross and full of sin.




 What, are you busy, ho? Need you my help?

 No, madam, we have culled such necessaries
 As are behooveful for our state tomorrow.
 So please you, let me now be left alone,
 And let the Nurse this night sit up with you,
 For I am sure you have your hands full all
 In this so sudden business.
 Good night.
 Get thee to bed and rest, for thou have need.


 Farewell. -- God knows when we shall meet again.
 I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins
 That almost freezes up the heat of life.
 I Will call them back again to comfort me. --
 Nurse! -- What should she do here?
 My dismal scene I needs must act alone.
 Come, vial.
 What if this mixture do not work at all?
 Shall I be married then tomorrow morning?


 No, no, this shall forbid it. Lie thou there.
 What if it be a poison which the Friar
 Subtly has ministered to have me dead,
 Lest in this marriage he should be dishonored
 Because he married me before to Romeo?
 I fear it is. And yet methinks it should not,
 For he has still been tried a holy man.
 How if, when I am laid into the tomb,
 I wake before the time that Romeo
 Come to redeem me? There Is a fearful point.
 Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,
 To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,
 And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?
 Or, if I live, is it not very like
 The horrible conceit of death and night,
 Together with the terror of the place --
 As in a vault, an ancient receptacle
 Where for this many hundred years the bones
 Of all my buried ancestors are packed;
 Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,
 Lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say,
 At some hours in the night spirits resort --
 Alack, alack, is it not like that I,
 So early waking, what with loathsome smells,
 And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth,
 That living mortals, hearing them, run mad --
 O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,
 Environed with all these hideous fears,
 And madly play with my forefathers' joints,
 And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud,
 And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone,
 As with a club, dash out my desperate brains?
 O look, methinks I see my cousin's ghost
 Seeking out Romeo that did spit his body
 Upon a rapier's point! Stay, Tybalt, stay!
 Romeo, Romeo, Romeo! Here Is drink. I drink to
 thee.





 Hold, take these keys, and fetch more spices, nurse.

 They call for dates and quinces in the pastry.




 Come, stir, stir, stir! The second cock has crowed.
 The curfew bell has rung. It Is three o'clock. --
 Look to the baked meats, good Angelica.
 Spare not for cost.
 Go, you cot-quean, go,
 Get you to bed. Faith, you will be sick tomorrow
 For this night's watching.

 No, not a whit. What, I have watched ere now
 All night for lesser cause, and never been sick.

 Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time,
 But I will watch you from such watching now.


 A jealous hood, a jealous hood!




 Now fellow,
 What is there?

 Things for the cook, sir, but I know not what.

 Make haste, make haste.
 Sirrah, fetch drier logs.
 Call Peter. He will show thee where they are.

 I have a head, sir, that will find out logs
 And never trouble Peter for the matter.

 Mass, and well said. A merry whoreson, ha!
 Thou shall be loggerhead.

 Good faith, it is day.
 The County will be here with music straight,

 For so he said he would. I hear him near. --
 Nurse! -- Wife! What ho! -- What, nurse, I say!



 Go waken Juliet. Go and trim her up.
 I Will go and chat with Paris. Hie, make haste,
 Make haste. The bridegroom he is come already.
 Make haste, I say.


 Mistress! What, mistress! Juliet! -- Fast, I warrant
 her, she --
 Why, lamb, why, lady! Fie, you slugabed!
 Why, love, I say! Madam! Sweetheart! Why, bride! --
 What, not a word? -- You take your pennyworths
 now.
 Sleep for a week, for the next night, I warrant,
 The County Paris has set up his rest
 That you shall rest but little. -- God forgive me,
 Marry, and amen! How sound is she asleep!
 I needs must wake her. -- Madam, madam, madam!
 Ay, let the County take you in your bed,
 He Will fright you up, in faith. -- Will it not be?

 What, dressed, and in your clothes, and down
 again?
 I must needs wake you. Lady, lady, lady! --
 Alas, alas! Help, help! My lady's dead. --
 O, weraday, that ever I was born! --
 Some aqua vitae, ho! -- My lord! My lady!




 What noise is here?
 O lamentable day!

 What is the matter?
 Look, look! -- O heavy day!

 O me! O me! My child, my only life,
 Revive, look up, or I will die with thee.
 Help, help! Call help.




 For shame, bring Juliet forth. Her lord is come.

 She Is dead, deceased. She Is dead, alack the day!

 Alack the day, she is dead, she is dead, she is dead.

 Ha, let me see her! Out, alas, she is cold.
 Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff.
 Life and these lips have long been separated.
 Death lies on her like an untimely frost
 Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

 O lamentable day!
 O woeful time!

 Death, that has taken her hence to make me wail,
 Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak.





 Come, is the bride ready to go to church?

 Ready to go, but never to return. --
 O son, the night before thy wedding day
 Has Death lain with thy wife. There she lies,
 Flower as she was, deflowered by him.
 Death is my son-in-law; Death is my heir.
 My daughter he has wedded. I will die
 And leave him all. Life, living, all is Death's.

 Have I thought long to see this morning's face,
 And does it give me such a sight as this?

 Accursed, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!
 Most miserable hour that ever time saw
 In lasting labor of his pilgrimage!
 But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
 But one thing to rejoice and solace in,
 And cruel death has catched it from my sight!

 O woe, O woeful, woeful, woeful day!
 Most lamentable day, most woeful day
 That ever, ever I did yet behold!
 O day, O day, O day, O hateful day!
 Never was seen so black a day as this!
 O woeful day, O woeful day!

 Beguiled, divorced, wronged, spited, slain!
 Most detestable death, by thee beguiled,
 By cruel, cruel thee quite overthrown!
 O love! O life! Not life, but love in death!

 Despised, distressed, hated, martyred, killed!
 Uncomfortable time, why came thou now
 To murder, murder our solemnity?
 O child! O child! My soul and not my child!
 Dead art thou! Alack, my child is dead,
 And with my child my joys are buried.

 Peace, ho, for shame! Confusion's cure lives not
 In these confusions. Heaven and yourself
 Had part in this fair maid. Now heaven has all,
 And all the better is it for the maid.
 Your part in her you could not keep from death,
 But heaven keeps his part in eternal life.
 The most you sought was her promotion,
 For 'twas your heaven she should be advanced;
 And weep you now, seeing she is advanced
 Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
 O, in this love you love your child so ill
 That you run mad, seeing that she is well.
 She Is not well married that lives married long,
 But she is best married that dies married young.
 Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary
 On this fair corse, and, as the custom is,
 And in her best array, bear her to church,
 For though fond nature bids us all lament,
 Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment.

 All things that we ordained festival
 Turn from their office to black funeral:
 Our instruments to melancholy bells,
 Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast,
 Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change,
 Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,
 And all things change them to the contrary.

 Sir, go you in, and, madam, go with him,
 And go, Sir Paris. Everyone prepare
 To follow this fair corse unto her grave.
 The heavens do lour upon you for some ill.
 Move them no more by crossing their high will.


 Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.

 Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up,
 For, well you know, this is a pitiful case.

 Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.




 Musicians, O musicians,
 O, an you will have me live, play

 Why
 O musicians, because my heart itself plays My
 heart is full. O, play me some merry dump to
 comfort me.
 Not a dump, we. It Is no time to play
 now.
 You will not then?
 No.
 I will then give it you soundly.
 What will you give us?
 No money, on my faith, but the gleek. I will give
 you the minstrel.
 Then will I give you the
 serving-creature.
 Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on
 your pate. I will carry no crochets. I Will you, I Will
 you. Do you note me?
 An you us and us, you note us.
 Pray you, put up your dagger and
 put out your wit.
 Then have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat
 you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger.
 Answer me like men.
 When griping griefs the heart does wound
 And doleful dumps the mind oppress,
 Then music with her silver sound --
 Why silver sound? Why music with her silver
 sound? What say you, Simon Catling?
 Marry, sir, because silver has a
 sweet sound.
 Prates. -- What say you, Hugh Rebeck?
 I say silver sound because musicians
 sound for silver.
 Prates too. -- What say you, James Soundpost?
 Faith, I know not what to say.
 O, I cry you mercy. You are the singer. I will say
 for you. It is music with her silver sound because
 musicians have no gold for sounding:
 Then music with her silver sound
 With speedy help does lend redress.

 What a pestilent knave is this same!
 Hang him, Jack. Come, we'll in
 here, tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner.





 If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep,
 My dreams presage some joyful news at hand.
 My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne,
 And all this day an unaccustomed spirit
 Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
 I dreamt my lady came and found me dead
 (Strange dream that gives a dead man leave to
 think!)
 And breathed such life with kisses in my lips
 That I revived and was an emperor.
 Ah me, how sweet is love itself possessed
 When but love's shadows are so rich in joy!



 News from Verona! -- How now, Balthazar?
 Do thou not bring me letters from the Friar?
 How does my lady? Is my father well?
 How does my Juliet? That I ask again,
 For nothing can be ill if she be well.

 Then she is well and nothing can be ill.
 Her body sleeps in Capels' monument,
 And her immortal part with angels lives.
 I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault
 And presently took post to tell it you.
 O, pardon me for bringing these ill news,
 Since you did leave it for my office, sir.

 Is it even so? -- Then I deny you, stars! --
 Thou know my lodging. Get me ink and paper,
 And hire posthorses. I will hence tonight.

 I do beseech you, sir, have patience.
 Your looks are pale and wild and do import
 Some misadventure.
 Tush, thou art deceived.
 Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
 Have thou no letters to me from the Friar?

 No, my good lord.
 No matter. Get thee gone,
 And hire those horses. I Will be with thee straight.

 Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight.
 Let Us see for means. O mischief, thou art swift
 To enter in the thoughts of desperate men.
 I do remember an apothecary
 (And hereabouts he dwells) which late I noted
 In tattered weeds, with overwhelming brows,
 Culling of simples. Meager were his looks.
 Sharp misery had worn him to the bones.
 And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
 An alligator stuffed, and other skins
 Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves,
 A beggarly account of empty boxes,
 Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,
 Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses
 Were thinly scattered to make up a show.
 Noting this penury, to myself I said
 An if a man did need a poison now,
 Whose sale is present death in Mantua,
 Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.
 O, this same thought did but forerun my need,
 And this same needy man must sell it me.
 As I remember, this should be the house.
 Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut. --
 What ho, Apothecary!



 Who calls so loud?

 Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor.

 Hold, there is forty ducats. Let me have
 A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear
 As will disperse itself through all the veins,
 That the life-weary taker may fall dead,
 And that the trunk may be discharged of breath
 As violently as hasty powder fired
 Does hurry from the fatal cannon's womb.

 Such mortal drugs I have, but Mantua's law
 Is death to any he that utters them.

 Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness,
 And fear to die? Famine is in thy cheeks,
 Need and oppression starveth in thy eyes,
 Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back.
 The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law.
 The world affords no law to make thee rich.
 Then be not poor, but break it, and take this.

 My poverty, but not my will, consents.

 I pay thy poverty and not thy will.

 Put this in any liquid thing you will
 And drink it off, and if you had the strength
 Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight.

 There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls,
 Doing more murder in this loathsome world
 Than these poor compounds that thou may not
 sell.
 I sell thee poison; thou have sold me none.
 Farewell, buy food, and get thyself in flesh.

 Come, cordial and not poison, go with me
 To Juliet's grave, for there must I use thee.




 Holy Franciscan friar, brother, ho!




 This same should be the voice of Friar John. --
 Welcome from Mantua. What says Romeo?
 Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.

 Going to find a barefoot brother out,
 One of our order, to associate me,
 Here in this city visiting the sick,
 And finding him, the searchers of the town,
 Suspecting that we both were in a house
 Where the infectious pestilence did reign,
 Sealed up the doors and would not let us forth,
 So that my speed to Mantua there was stayed.

 Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo?

 I could not send it -- here it is again --

 Nor get a messenger to bring it thee,
 So fearful were they of infection.

 Unhappy fortune! By my brotherhood,
 The letter was not nice but full of charge,
 Of dear import, and the neglecting it
 May do much danger. Friar John, go hence.
 Get me an iron crow and bring it straight
 Unto my cell.

 Brother, I Will go and bring it thee.

 Now must I to the monument alone.
 Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake.
 She will beshrew me much that Romeo
 Has had no notice of these accidents.
 But I will write again to Mantua,
 And keep her at my cell till Romeo come.
 Poor living corse, closed in a dead man's tomb!




 Give me thy torch, boy. Hence and stand aloof.
 Yet put it out, for I would not be seen.
 Under yond yew trees lay thee all along,
 Holding thy ear close to the hollow ground.
 So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread
 (Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves)
 But thou shall hear it. Whistle then to me
 As signal that thou hear something approach.
 Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee. Go.

 I am almost afraid to stand alone
 Here in the churchyard. Yet I will adventure.


 Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew
 (O woe, thy canopy is dust and stones!)
 Which with sweet water nightly I will dew,
 Or, wanting that, with tears distilled by moans.
 The obsequies that I for thee will keep
 Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.

 The boy gives warning something does approach.
 What cursed foot wanders this way tonight,
 To cross my obsequies and true love's rite?
 What, with a torch? Muffle me, night, awhile.





 Give me that mattock and the wrenching iron.
 Hold, take this letter. Early in the morning
 See thou deliver it to my lord and father.
 Give me the light. Upon thy life I charge thee,
 Whatever thou hear or see, stand all aloof
 And do not interrupt me in my course.
 Why I descend into this bed of death
 Is partly to behold my lady's face,
 But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger
 A precious ring, a ring that I must use
 In dear employment. Therefore hence, begone.
 But, if thou, jealous, do return to pry
 In what I farther shall intend to do,
 By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint
 And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs.
 The time and my intents are savage-wild,
 More fierce and more inexorable far
 Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.

 I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.

 So shall thou show me friendship. Take thou that.

 Live and be prosperous, and farewell, good fellow.

 For all this same, I Will hide me hereabout.
 His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.


 Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,
 Gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth,
 Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,
 And in despite I Will cram thee with more food.

 This is that banished haughty Montague
 That murdered my love's cousin, with which grief
 It is supposed the fair creature died,
 And here is come to do some villainous shame
 To the dead bodies. I will apprehend him.

 Stop thy unhallowed toil, vile Montague.
 Can vengeance be pursued further than death?
 Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee.
 Obey and go with me, for thou must die.

 I must indeed, and therefore came I hither.
 Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man.
 Fly hence and leave me. Think upon these gone.
 Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth,
 Put not another sin upon my head
 By urging me to fury. O, begone!
 By heaven, I love thee better than myself,
 For I come hither armed against myself.
 Stay not, begone, live, and hereafter say
 A madman's mercy bid thee run away.

 I do defy thy commination
 And apprehend thee for a felon here.

 Will thou provoke me? Then have at thee, boy!


 O Lord, they fight! I will go call the watch.


 O, I am slain! If thou be merciful,
 Open the tomb; lay me with Juliet.

 In faith, I will. -- Let me peruse this face.
 Mercutio's kinsman, noble County Paris!
 What said my man when my betossed soul
 Did not attend him as we rode? I think
 He told me Paris should have married Juliet.
 Said he not so? Or did I dream it so?
 Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,
 To think it was so? -- O, give me thy hand,
 One writ with me in sour misfortune's book!
 I Will bury thee in a triumphant grave. --

 A grave? O, no. A lantern, slaughtered youth,
 For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes
 This vault a feasting presence full of light. --
 Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interred.

 How often when men are at the point of death
 Have they been merry, which their keepers call
 A lightning before death! O, how may I
 Call this a lightning? -- O my love, my wife,
 Death, that has sucked the honey of thy breath,
 Has had no power yet upon thy beauty.
 Thou art not conquered. Beauty's ensign yet
 Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,
 And death's pale flag is not advanced there. --
 Tybalt, lie thou there in thy bloody sheet?
 O, what more favor can I do to thee
 Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain
 To sunder his that was thine enemy?
 Forgive me, cousin. -- Ah, dear Juliet,
 Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe
 That unsubstantial death is amorous,
 And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
 Thee here in dark to be his paramour?
 For fear of that I still will stay with thee
 And never from this palace of dim night
 Depart again. Here, here will I remain
 With worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here
 Will I set up my everlasting rest
 And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
 From this world-wearied flesh! Eyes, look your last.
 Arms, take your last embrace. And, lips, O, you
 The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
 A dateless bargain to engrossing death.

 Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavory guide!
 Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
 The dashing rocks thy seasick weary bark!
 Here Is to my love. O true apothecary,
 Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.




 Saint Francis be my speed! How often tonight
 Have my old feet stumbled at graves! -- Who Is there?

 Here Is one, a friend, and one that knows you well.

 Bliss be upon you. Tell me, good my friend,
 What torch is yond that vainly lends his light
 To grubs and eyeless skulls? As I discern,
 It burns in the Capels' monument.

 It does so, holy sir, and there is my master,
 One that you love.
 Who is it?
 Romeo.

 How long has he been there?
 Full half an hour.

 Go with me to the vault.
 I dare not, sir.
 My master knows not but I am gone hence,
 And fearfully did menace me with death
 If I did stay to look on his intents.

 Stay, then. I Will go alone. Fear comes upon me.
 O, much I fear some ill unthrifty thing.

 As I did sleep under this yew tree here,
 I dreamt my master and another fought,
 And that my master slew him.

 Romeo! --
 Alack, alack, what blood is this which stains
 The stony entrance of this sepulcher?
 What mean these masterless and gory swords
 To lie discolored by this place of peace?
 Romeo! O, pale! Who else? What, Paris too?
 And steeped in blood? Ah, what an unkind hour
 Is guilty of this lamentable chance!
 The lady stirs.

 O comfortable friar, where is my lord?
 I do remember well where I should be,
 And there I am. Where is my Romeo?

 I hear some noise. -- Lady, come from that nest
 Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep.
 A greater power than we can contradict
 Has thwarted our intents. Come, come away.
 Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead,
 And Paris, too. Come, I Will dispose of thee
 Among a sisterhood of holy nuns.
 Stay not to question, for the watch is coming.
 Come, go, good Juliet. I dare no longer stay.

 Go, get thee hence, for I will not away.

 What Is here? A cup closed in my true love's hand?
 Poison, I see, has been his timeless end. --
 O churl, drunk all, and left no friendly drop
 To help me after! I will kiss thy lips.
 Happily some poison yet does hang on them,
 To make me die with a restorative.
 Thy lips are warm!



 Lead, boy. Which way?

 Yea, noise? Then I Will be brief. O, happy dagger,
 This is thy sheath. There rust, and let me die.


 This is the place, there where the torch does burn.

 The ground is bloody. -- Search about the
 churchyard.
 Go, some of you; whoever you find, attach.

 Pitiful sight! Here lies the County slain,
 And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead,
 Who here has lain this two days buried. --
 Go, tell the Prince. Run to the Capulets.
 Raise up the Montagues. Some others search.

 We see the ground whereon these woes do lie,
 But the true ground of all these piteous woes
 We cannot without circumstance descry.




 Here Is Romeo's man. We found him in the
 churchyard.

 Hold him in safety till the Prince come hither.




 Here is a friar that trembles, sighs, and weeps.
 We took this mattock and this spade from him
 As he was coming from this churchyard's side.

 A great suspicion. Stay the Friar too.




 What misadventure is so early up
 That calls our person from our morning rest?



 What should it be that is so shrieked abroad?

 O, the people in the street cry Romeo,
 Some Juliet, and some Paris, and all run
 With open outcry toward our monument.

 What fear is this which startles in our ears?

 Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain,
 And Romeo dead, and Juliet, dead before,
 Warm and new killed.

 Search, seek, and know how this foul murder
 comes.

 Here is a friar, and slaughtered Romeo's man,
 With instruments upon them fit to open
 These dead men's tombs.

 O heavens! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds!
 This dagger has mista'en, for, lo, his house
 Is empty on the back of Montague,
 And it mis-sheathed in my daughter's bosom.

 O me, this sight of death is as a bell
 That warns my old age to a sepulcher.




 Come, Montague, for thou art early up
 To see thy son and heir now early down.

 Alas, my liege, my wife is dead tonight.
 Grief of my son's exile has stopped her breath.
 What further woe conspires against mine age?
 Look, and thou shall see.

 O thou untaught! What manners is in this,
 To press before thy father to a grave?

 Seal up the mouth of outrage for awhile,
 Till we can clear these ambiguities
 And know their spring, their head, their true
 descent,
 And then will I be general of your woes
 And lead you even to death. Meantime forbear,
 And let mischance be slave to patience. --
 Bring forth the parties of suspicion.

 I am the greatest, able to do least,
 Yet most suspected, as the time and place
 Does make against me, of this direful murder.
 And here I stand, both to impeach and purge
 Myself condemned and myself excused.

 Then say at once what thou do know in this.

 I will be brief, for my short date of breath
 Is not so long as is a tedious tale.
 Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet,
 And she, there dead, that Romeo's faithful wife.
 I married them, and their stolen marriage day
 Was Tybalt's doomsday, whose untimely death
 Banished the new-made bridegroom from this city,
 For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pined.
 You, to remove that siege of grief from her,
 Betrothed and would have married her perforce
 To County Paris. Then comes she to me,
 And with wild looks bid me devise some mean
 To rid her from this second marriage,
 Or in my cell there would she kill herself.
 Then gave I her (so tutored by my art)
 A sleeping potion, which so took effect
 As I intended, for it wrought on her
 The form of death. Meantime I writ to Romeo
 That he should hither come as this dire night
 To help to take her from her borrowed grave,
 Being the time the potion's force should cease.
 But he which bore my letter, Friar John,
 Was stayed by accident, and yesternight
 Returned my letter back. Then all alone
 At the prefixed hour of her waking
 Came I to take her from her kindred's vault,
 Meaning to keep her closely at my cell
 Till I conveniently could send to Romeo.
 But when I came, some minute ere the time
 Of her awakening, here untimely lay
 The noble Paris and true Romeo dead.
 She wakes, and I entreated her come forth
 And bear this work of heaven with patience.
 But then a noise did scare me from the tomb,
 And she, too desperate, would not go with me
 But, as it seems, did violence on herself.
 All this I know, and to the marriage
 Her nurse is privy. And if aught in this
 Miscarried by my fault, let my old life
 Be sacrificed some hour before his time
 Unto the rigor of severest law.

 We still have known thee for a holy man. --
 Where Is Romeo's man? What can he say to this?

 I brought my master news of Juliet's death,
 And then in post he came from Mantua
 To this same place, to this same monument.
 This letter he early bid me give his father
 And threatened me with death, going in the vault,
 If I departed not and left him there.

 Give me the letter. I will look on it. --

 Where is the County's page, that raised the
 watch? --
 Sirrah, what made your master in this place?

 He came with flowers to strew his lady's grave
 And bid me stand aloof, and so I did.
 Anon comes one with light to open the tomb,
 And by and by my master drew on him,
 And then I ran away to call the watch.

 This letter does make good the Friar's words,
 Their course of love, the tidings of her death;
 And here he writes that he did buy a poison
 Of a poor 'pothecary, and therewithal
 Came to this vault to die and lie with Juliet.
 Where be these enemies? -- Capulet, Montague,
 See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
 That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love,
 And I, for winking at your discords too,
 Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punished.

 O brother Montague, give me thy hand.
 This is my daughter's jointure, for no more
 Can I demand.
 But I can give thee more,
 For I will ray her statue in pure gold,
 That whiles Verona by that name is known,
 There shall no figure at such rate be set
 As that of true and faithful Juliet.

 As rich shall Romeo's by his lady's lie,
 Poor sacrifices of our enmity.

 A glooming peace this morning with it brings.
 The sun for sorrow will not show his head.
 Go hence to have more talk of these sad things.
 Some shall be pardoned, and some punished.
 For never was a story of more woe
 Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.