- You lie.
- Draw if you be men.
- 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, hey!
- Clubs, bills,
and partisans, strike!
- Beat them down!
- Down with the Capulets!
- Down with the Montagues!
- What noise is this?
Give me my sword, sirrah.
- 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.
- Villain Capulet.
Hold me not, let me go.
- Thou shalt not stir
one foot to seek a foe.
- Rebellious subjects,
enemies to peace,
profaners of this
neighbor-stained steel,
will they not hear?
What h*, you men, you beasts,
on pain of t*rture,
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.
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 further
judgment in this case.
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.
- O where is Romeo,
saw you him today?
Right glad I am he
was not at this fray.
- Madam, an hour before
the worshiped sun
peered forth the golden
window of the East,
a troubled mind drave
me to walk abroad,
where underneath the
grove of sycamore,
that westward rooteth
from the city's side,
so early walking
did I see your son.
Towards him I made,
but he was ware of me
and stole into the
covert of the wood.
- Many a morning hath
he there been seen,
with tears augmenting
the fresh morning dew,
but all so soon as
the all-cheering sun
should in the furthest East
begin to draw the 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.
- My noble Uncle, do
you know the cause?
- I neither know it
nor can learn of him.
He is to himself so
secret and so close,
so far from sounding
and discovery,
as is the bud bit
with an envious worm.
See where he comes.
- So please you, step aside.
I'll know his grievance
or be much denied.
- I would thou wert
so happy by thy stay
to hear true shrift.
- Come, Madam, let's away.
- Good morrow, Cousin.
- Is the day so young?
- But new struck nine.
- Aye 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's much to do with
hate, but more with love.
Why then, O brawling love,
O loving hate,
O, anything of
nothing first create,
feather of lead, bright smoke,
cold fire, sick health,
still-waking sleep,
that is not what it is.
This love feel I that
feel no love in this.
Dost thou not laugh?
- 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 wilt propagate,
to have it pressed
with more of thine.
This love that thou hast shown
doth add more grief to
too much of mine own.
Love is,
a smoke made with
a fume of sighs,
being purged, a fire
sparkling in lovers' eyes,
being vexed, a sea nourished
with lovers' tears.
What is it else?
A madness most discreet,
a choking gall and
a preserving sweet.
Farewell, my coz.
- Soft, I will go along,
and if you leave me
so, you do me wrong.
- Tut, I have lost
myself, I am not here.
This is not Romeo.
He's 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?
- In sadness, Cousin,
I do love a woman.
- I aimed so near when
I supposed you loved.
- A right good markman,
and she's fair I love.
- A right fair mark,
fair coz, is soonest hit.
- Well, in that hit, you miss.
She'll not be hit
with Cupid's arrow,
she hath Diane's wit,
and in strong proof of
chastity well-armed,
from love's weak childish
bow she lives unharmed.
She will not stay the
siege of loving terms,
nor bide the encounter
of assailing eyes,
nor ope her lap to
saint-seducing gold.
O, she is rich in
beauty, only poor,
that when she dies, with
beauty dies her store.
- Then she hath sworn that
she will still live chaste?
- She hath, and in that
sparing makes huge waste.
She hath 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.
- 'Tis the way to call hers
exquisite in question more.
He that is strucken
blind cannot forget
the precious treasure
of his eyesight lost.
Show me a mistress
that is passing fair.
What doth her beauty
serve but as a note
where I may read who
passed that passing fair?
Farewell, thou canst
not teach me to forget.
- I'll pay that doctrine
or else die in debt.
- But Montague is
bound as well as I in
penalty alike, and
'tis not hard, I think,
for men so old as we
to keep the peace.
- Of honorable
reckoning are you both,
and pity 'tis you
lived at odds so long.
But now, my Lord, what
say you to my suit?
- But saying o'er what
I have said before.
My child is yet a
stranger in the world.
She hath not seen the
change of 14 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.
The 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 fest,
whereto I've 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 female buds
shall you this
night inherit at my house.
But hear all, all see,
and like her most whose
merit most shall be.
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.
I am sent to find those persons
whose names are here writ,
and can never find what names
the writing person
hath here writ.
I must to the
learned, in good time.
- Tut, man, one fire burns
out another's burning.
One pain is lessened
by another's anguish.
Take thou some new
infection to thy eye,
and the rank poison
of the old will die.
- Your plaintain 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 e'en, good fellow.
- God ye good e'en.
Pray you, sir, can you read?
- Aye, mine own
fortune in my misery.
- Perhaps you have
learned it without book.
But I pray you, can you
read anything you see?
- Aye, if I know the
letters and the language.
- Ah, you say honestly.
Rest you merry.
- Stay, fellow, I can read.
- Uh, oh.
- Signor Martino and
his wife and daughters,
County Anselmo and
his beauteous sisters,
The Lady Widow of Vitruvio.
- The Lady Widow of Vitruvio.
- Signor Placentio
and his lovely nieces,
Mercutio and his
brother Valentine,
Signor Valentio and
his cousin Tybalt,
My fair niece Rosaline.
- Rosaline.
- Lucio and the lively Helena.
- To 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 you 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 you come,
crush a cup of wine.
Rest you merry.
- At this same ancient
Fest 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.
One fairer than my love?
The all-seeing sun
ne'er 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 Fest,
and she shall scant show
well that now seems best.
- I'll go along, no
such sight to be shown,
but to rejoice in
splendor of mine own.
- Nurse, where's my daughter?
Call her forth to me.
- Now by my maidenhead, a 12
year old, I bade her come.
What, Lamb!
What, Ladybird!
God forbid, where's 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'st hear our counsel.
Thou knowest my daughter's
of a pretty age.
- O, Faith, I can
tell her age unto an hour.
- She's not 14.
- I'll lay 14 of my teeth.
And yet, to my teen be it
spoken, I have but four,
she's not 14.
How long is it now
to Lammas-tide?
- A fortnight and odd days.
- Even or odd, of
all days in the year,
come Lammas Eve,
at night shall she be 14.
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 14.
That shall she, marry,
I remember it well.
'Tis since the
earthquake now 11 years,
and she was weaned, Oh,
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,
O, 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, O, 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 11 years,
for then she could
stand high-lone,
O, 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,
O, God be with his soul,
he was a merry man,
took up the child.
"Yea," quoth he, "dost
thou fall upon thy face?
"Thou wilt fall backward
when thou hast more wit,
"wilt thou not, Jule?"
And by my holy-dam,
the pretty wretch left
crying and said, "Aye."
To see now how a jest
shall come about.
I warrant, and I should
live a 1,000 years,
I never should forget it.
"Wilt thou not, Jule?" quoth he,
and pretty fool, it
stinted and said, "Aye."
- 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, "Aye."
And yet I warrant
it had upon it brow
a bump as big as a
young c*ck's stone,
a parlous knock, and
it cried bitterly.
"Yea," quoth my husband,
"fall'st upon thy face?
"Thou wilt fall backward
when thou com'st to age,
"wilt thou not, Jule?"
It stinted and said "Aye."
- And stint thou too, I
pray thee, Nurse, say I.
- Oh, Peace, I have done.
God mark thee to his grace,
thou wast the prettiest
babe that e'er 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 hadst
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 a 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, O, lady,
such a man as all the world,
why, he's a man of wax.
- Verona's summer
hath not such a flower.
- O, Faith, he's a
flower, a very flower.
- What say you, can
you love the gentleman?
This night you shall
behold him at our Fest.
Read o'er the volume
of young Paris' face,
and find delight writ
there with beauty's pen.
This precious book of love,
this unbound lover,
to beautify him
only lacks a cover.
So shall you share all
that he doth 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'll look to like,
if looking liking move,
but no more deep will
I endart mine eye
than your consent gives
strength to make it 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.
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.
Now 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 doth quote 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.
- Come, we burn daylight, h*!
- Nay, that's not so.
- I mean, sir, in delay.
We waste our lights in vain,
like lamps 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 'tis 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.
- Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.
Then I see Queen Mab
hath been with you.
- Queen Mab, what's she?
- 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 Atomis
over men's noses
as they lie asleep.
Her wagon-spokes made
of long spinner's 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 wagoneer, 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 o' mind the
fairies' coachmakers.
And in this state she
gallops night by night
through lovers' brains, and
then they dream of love,
o'er courtiers' knees who
dream on courtesies straight,
o'er lawyers' fingers, who
straight dream on fees,
o'er ladies' lips, who
straight on kisses dream,
which oft the angry Mab
with blisters plagues,
because their breaths with
sweetmeats tainted are.
Sometime she driveth
o'er a soldier's neck,
and dreams he of
cutting foreign throats,
of breaches, ambuscados,
of 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 plaits 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'st 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 hath
the steerage of my course,
direct my sail.
On, lusty gentlemen.
- Welcome, Gentlemen.
Ladies that have their toes
unplagued with corns
will walk about
with you.
Oh, my mistresses,
which of you all will
now deny to dance?
She that makes dainty,
she I'll swear hath corns.
Am I come near ye now?
Oh, you are welcome, Gentlemen.
Come, musicians, play!
A hall, a hall,
give room, and foot it girls!
- What lady's that which
doth enrich the hand
of yonder knight?
- I know not, sir.
- O, she doth teach the
torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs
upon the cheek of night
like a rich jewel
in an Ethiope's ear.
Beauty too rich for use,
for earth, too dear.
The measure done,
I'll watch her place of stand
and touching hers,
make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now?
Forswear it, sight,
for I ne'er saw true
beauty till this night.
- This, by his voice,
should be a Montague.
Fetch me my rapier, boy.
What, dares the
sl*ve 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.
- A Montague is't?
- That villain Romeo.
- Content thee, gentle
coz, let him alone.
A bears him like a
proper 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 the 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 Fest.
- It fits when such
a villain is a guest.
I'll 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'll not endure him?
God shall mend my soul.
You'll make a mutiny
among my guests?
You will set c*ck-a-hoop,
you'll be the man?
- Why, Uncle, 'tis a shame.
- Go to, go to,
you're a saucy boy.
Is't so, indeed?
This trick may chance to
scathe you, I know what.
You must contrary me.
Marry, 'tis time.
You are a Princox, go.
Be quiet, or for shame,
I will make you quiet.
What!
Cheerily, my hearts,
cheerily!
- Patience perforce, with
wilful choler meeting
makes my flesh tremble in
their different greeting.
I will withdraw,
but this intrusion shall
now seeming sweet convert
to bitterest 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?
- Aye, 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 lady 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 ch*nk.
- Is she a Capulet?
O dear account, my
life is my foe's debt.
- Away, begone, the
sport is at the best.
- Aye, so I fear, the
more is my unrest.
- Nay, Gentlemen,
prepare not to be gone,
we have a trifling
foolish banquet towards.
Is't e'en so?
Why then, I thank you all.
I thank you, honest
Gentlemen, good night.
More torches here, come on then.
Let's to bed.
- Come hither, Nurse.
What is yond gentleman?
- The Son and Heir
of old Tiberio.
- What's he that now
is going out of door?
- Now, that, I think,
be young Petruchio.
- What's he that follows
there 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.
- What's this, what's this?
- A rhyme I learned even
now, of one I danced withal.
- Juliet!
- Anon, anon!
Come, let's away, the
strangers are all gone.
- Can I go forward
when my heart is here?
Turn back, dull earth,
and find thy center out.
- Romeo, Romeo, Romeo!
Romeo, my cousin Romeo.
- He is wise,
and on my life hath
stolen him home to bed.
- He ran this way and
leapt this orchard wall.
Call, good Mercutio.
- Nay, I'll 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 aye me,
pronounce but love and dove.
He heareth not, he stirreth not,
he moveth not, the ape is dead.
And I must conjure him.
I conjure thee
by Rosaline's bright eyes,
by her high forehead
and her scarlet lip,
by her fine foot,
straight leg, and
quivering thigh,
and the domains that
there adjacent lie,
that in thy likeness
thou appear to us.
- And if he hear thee,
thou wilt anger him.
- Oh, this cannot anger him.
'Twould anger him
to raise a spirit
in his mistress' circle
of some strange nature,
there letting it stand
till she hath 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 hath 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.
Romeo, oh, Romeo.
Oh, Romeo.
Oh, oh, oh, Romeo.
Oh, Romeo, Romeo, Romeo.
That she were an open arse
and thou a Poperin Pear.
Romeo!
Good night.
I'll to my truckle-bed.
This field bed's too
cold for me to sleep.
Come, shall we go?
- Go then, for 'tis in vain
to seek him here that
means not to be found.
- He jests at scars
that never felt a wound.
- Now old Desire doth
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 with
the charm of looks,
but to his foe supposed
he must complain,
and she steal love's sweet
bait from fearful hooks.
But passion lends them power,
time means to meet,
tempering extremities
with extreme sweet.
- But soft, what light
through yonder window breaks?
It is the East, and
Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and
k*ll 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.
'Tis 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 doth a lamp.
Her eyes 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.
- Aye me.
- She speaks, O, speak again,
bright angel, for thou art
as glorious to this
night, being o'er 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-pacing 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 wilt not,
be but sworn my love,
and I'll no longer be a Capulet.
- Shall I hear more or
shall I speak at this?
- 'Tis but thy name
that is my enemy.
Thou art thyself,
though not a Montague.
What's Montague?
It is nor hand nor foot,
nor arm nor face
nor any other part
belonging to a man.
O, be some other name.
What's 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 that name which
is no part of thee
take all myself.
- I take thee at thy word.
Call me but love and
I'll be new baptized,
and 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 not yet drunk
a hundred words of that
tongue's uttering,
yet I know the sound.
Art thou not Romeo
and a Montague?
- Neither, fair saint,
if either thee dislike.
- How cam'st thou hither,
tell me and wherefore?
The orchard walls are
high and hard to climb,
and the place death,
considering who thou art,
if any of my kinsmen
find thee here.
- With love's light wings
did I o'er-perch these walls,
For stony limits
cannot hold love out,
and what love can do,
that dares love attempt.
Therefore thy kinsmen
are no stop to me.
- If they do see thee,
they will m*rder 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, who first did
prompt me to inquire.
He lent me counsel
and I lent him eyes.
I am no Pilot.
Yet wert thou as far
as that vast shore washed
with the farthest sea,
I would adventure
for such merchandise.
- Thou knowest the mask
of night is on my face,
else would a maiden
blush bepaint my cheek
for that which thou hast
heard me speak tonight.
Fain would I dwell on
form, fain, fain deny
what I have spoke, but
farewell compliment.
Dost thou love me?
I know thou wilt say aye
and I will take thy word.
Yet if thou swear'st,
thou mayst prove false.
At lovers' perjuries,
they say Jove laughs.
O gentle Romeo,
if thou dost love,
pronounce it faithfully,
or if thou think'st
I am too quickly won,
I'll frown and be
perverse and say thee nay,
so thou wilt woo, but
else not for the world.
In truth, fair
Montague, I am too fond,
and therefore thou mayst
think my 'havior light,
but trust me, Gentlemen,
I'll prove more true
than those that have more
cunning to be strange.
I should have been more
strange, I must confess,
but that thou overheard'st,
I was ware, my true
love's passion.
Therefore pardon me,
and not impute this
yielding to light love,
which the dark night
hath so discovered.
- Lady, by yonder
blessed moon I vow
that tips with silver all
these fruit tree tops.
- 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 wilt, swear
by thy gracious self,
which is the God of my Idolatry,
and I'll 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 doth cease to be
ere one can say it lightens.
Sweet, good night.
This bud of love, by
summer's ripening breath,
may prove a beauteous
flower when next we meet.
Good night, good night.
As sweet repose and rest
come to thy heart as
that within my breast.
- O, wilt thou leave
me so unsatisfied?
- What satisfaction
canst thou have tonight?
- The exchange of thy love's
faithful vow for mine.
- I gave thee mine before
thou didst request it,
and yet I would it
were to give again.
- Wouldst 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.
- Juliet.
- I hear some noise within.
Dear love, adieu,
anon, good Nurse.
Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay but a little,
I will come again.
- Oh, Oh, blessed,
blessed night,
I am afeared,
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'll
procure to come to thee,
where and what time thou
wilt perform the rite,
and all my fortunes
at thy foot I'll lay
and follow thee, my Lord,
throughout the world.
- Madam!
- I come, anon.
But if thou mean'st 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.
- Psst, Romeo, psst.
O, for a falconer'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's name.
- It is my soul that
calls upon my name.
How silver-sweet sound
lovers' tongues by night,
like softest music
to attending ears.
- Romeo, at what o'clock
tomorrow shall I send to thee?
- By the hour of nine.
- I will not fail.
'Tis 20 years 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,
remembering how I
love thy company.
- And I'll still stay to
have thee still forget,
forgetting any
other home but this.
- 'Tis almost morning,
I would have thee gone,
and yet no further
than a wanton's bird,
who lets it hop a
little from her hand,
like a poor prisoner
in his twisted gyves.
Then with a silk thread
plucks it back again,
so loving-jealous
of his liberty.
- I would I were thy bird.
- Sweet, so would I.
Yet I should k*ll 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 cell,
his help to crave and
my dear hap to tell.
- The gray-eyed morn smiles
on the frowning night,
checkering the Eastern
clouds with streaks of light.
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's 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.
And nought so vile that
on the Earth doth live
but to the Earth some
special good doth give,
nor aught so good but
strained from that fair use
revolts from true birth,
stumbling on abuse.
Within the infant rind
of this weak flower,
poison hath 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.
Therefore thy earliness
doth me assure
thou art uproused with
some distemperature.
Or if not so, then
here I hit it right.
Our Romeo hath 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's my good son.
But where hast thou been then?
- I'll tell thee ere
thou ask it me again.
I have been feasting
with mine enemy,
where on a sudden, one hath
wounded me that's by me wounded.
Both our remedies within thy
help and holy physic lies.
- 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'll 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 didst
love so dear so soon forsaken?
Young men's love then lies
not truly in their
hearts but in their eyes.
Jesu Maria, what
a deal of brine,
hath washed thy sallow
cheeks for Rosaline.
The sun not yet thy
sighs from heaven clears,
thy old groans ring
yet in my ancient ears.
Lo, here upon thy cheek
the stain doth sit,
of an old tear that
is not washed off yet.
And art thou changed?
Pronounce this sentence then.
Women may fall when
there's no strength in men.
- Thou chid'st me oft
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
doth 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'll
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 shall sure run mad.
- Tybalt, the kinsman
of old Capulet,
hath 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,
shot 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.
He's the courageous
Captain of Compliments.
He fights as you
sing prick-song.
Rests his minim rests,
one, two, and the
third in your bosom.
The very butcher
of a silk button,
a duelist, a duelist.
Ah, the immortal Passado,
the Punto Reverso, the hey!
- The what?
- A pox of such antic, lisping,
affecting Fantasticoes.
- Oh, here comes Romeo,
here comes Romeo.
- Without his roe,
like a dried herring.
O flesh, flesh,
how art thou fishified.
Signor Romeo, bonjour.
There's 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's
as much as to say,
such a case as yours constrains
a man to bow in the hams.
- Meaning to curtsy.
- Thou hast most kindly hit it.
- A most courteous exposition.
- Nay, I'm the very
pink of courtesy.
- Pink for flower.
- Right.
- Why, then is my
pump well-flowered.
- Well said, follow
me this jest now
till thou hast
worn out thy pump,
that when the single
sole of it is worn,
the jest may remain after
the wearing solely singular.
- O, single-soled jest,
solely singular
for the singleness.
- Come between us, good
Benvolio, my wits faint.
- Switch and spurs,
switch and spurs,
or I'll cry a match!
- Nay, if our wits run the
wild goose chase, I am done,
for thou hast more of the
wild goose in one of thy wits
than I'm 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'll bite thee
by the ear for that jest.
- Nay, good goose, bite not.
- Now, is not this better
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,
a great natural that
runs lolling up and down
to hide his bauble in a hole.
- Stop there, stop there.
- Thou desirest me to stop
in my tale against the hair.
- Thou wouldst else have
made thy tale large.
- 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's 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 ye good morrow, Gentlemen.
- God ye good e'en,
fair Gentlewoman.
- Is it good e'en?
- 'Tis no less, I tell thee,
for the bawdy hand of the dial
is now upon the prick of noon.
- Oh, out upon you,
what a man are you?
- One, Gentlewoman, that God
hath made for himself to mar.
- By my troth, 'tis well said.
"For himself to mar," quoth a?
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.
- Is the worse well?
- If you be he, sir, I desire
some confidence with you.
- She will indict
him to some supper.
- A bawd, a bawd,
a bawd, a bawd.
A bawd!
So h*!
- What hast thou found?
- Oh, no hare, sir,
unless a hare, sir,
in a Lenten pie,
that is something,
stale and hoar 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'll take him down.
An he were lustier than he
is, and twenty such Jacks!
And if I cannot, I'll
find those that shall.
Scurvy knave, I am none
of his flirt-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 naked 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, afore God, I am so vexed,
that every part about me
quivers, scurvy knave!
I pray you, sir, a word.
And as I said, my young
lady bid me inquire you out.
What she bid me say,
I will keep to myself.
But first let me tell ye,
if ye should lead her into 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.
- Oh, good heart and i' faith,
I will tell her as much.
Oh, Lord, Lord, she
will be a joyful woman!
- What wilt thou
tell her, Nurse?
Thou dost not mark me.
- I will tell her, sir,
that you do protest,
which as I take it, is
a gentleman-like offer.
- Bid her devise some means
to come to shrift
this afternoon.
And there she shall
at Friar Laurence cell
be shrived and married.
And there is for thy pains.
- Oh, truly sir, not a penny.
- Go to, I say you shall.
- Oh, this afternoon, sir?
Oh, 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
top-gallant of my joy
must be my convoy
in the secret night.
Be trusty and I'll
quit thy pains.
Farewell, commend
me to thy mistress.
- Now God in heaven bless thee!
Oh, hark you, 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 warrant you,
when I say so,
she looks as pale as any
clout in the versal world.
Doth not rosemary and Romeo
begin both with a letter?
- Aye, Nurse, what of that?
Both with an R.
- Ah, Mocker, that's the
dog's name, arrgh is for the,
No, I know it begins
with some other letter.
And she hath the prettiest
sententious of it,
of you and rosemary, that it
would do you good to hear it.
- Commend me to thy lady.
- Aye, 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's not so.
O, she is lame.
Love's heralds
should be thoughts,
which 10 times faster
glide than the sun's beams,
driving back shadows
over louring hills.
Therefore do nimble-pinioned
doves draw love,
and therefore hath the
wind-swift Cupid wings.
Now is the sun upon the highmost
hill of this day's journey,
and from nine till 12
is three long hours,
yet she is not come.
Had she affections and
warm youthful blood,
she'd be as swift
in motion as a ball.
My words would bandy
her to my sweet love,
and his to me.
But old folks, many
feign as they were dead,
unwieldy, slow, heavy,
and pale as lead.
O God, she comes.
O honey nurse, what news?
Hast thou met with him?
Send thy man away.
- Peter, stay at the gate.
- Now, good, sweet nurse, O
Lord, why look'st thou sad?
Though news be sad,
yet tell them merrily.
If good, thou sham'st
the music of sweet news
by playing it to me
with so sour a face.
- I am a-weary, give
me leave awhile!
O fie, how my bones ache.
What a jaunt have I.
- I would thou hadst 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 hast
breath to say to me
that thou art out of breath?
The excuse that thou
dost make in this delay
is longer than the
tale thou dost excuse.
Is thy news good or bad?
Answer to that.
Say either and I'll
stay the circumstance.
Let me be satisfied,
is't good or bad?
- 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.
But for a hand and
a foot and a body,
though they be not
to be talked on,
yet they are past compare.
And he's not the
flower of courtesy,
but, I'll 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?
- O Lord, how my head aches!
What a head have I!
It beats and it would
fall in twenty pieces.
My back, t' other side.
My back, my back!
Beshrew your heart
for sending me about,
to catch my death with
jauncing up and down.
- I' 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 repliest!
"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's such a coil,
come, what says Romeo?
- Have you got leave
to go to shrift today?
- I have.
- Then hie you hence
to Friar Laurence cell.
There stays a husband
to make you a wife.
Now comes the wanton
blood up in your cheeks.
Oh, they'll be in scarlet
straight at any news.
Hie you to church.
I must another way,
to fetch a ladder by
the which your love
must climb a bird's nest
soon when it is dark.
O, I am the drudge and
toil in your delight,
but you shall bear the
burden soon at night.
Go, I'll 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.
Here comes the lady.
O so light a foot will ne'er
wear out the everlasting flint.
- Good even to my
ghostly confessor.
- Romeo shall thank thee,
Daughter, for us both.
- As much to him, else
is his thanks too much.
- Juliet, if the measure of
thy joy be heaped like mine
and that thy skill
be more to blazon it,
then 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's retire.
The day is hot, the
Capulets 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 upon the operation
of a second cup
draws him on the drawer when
indeed there is no need.
- Am I like such a fellow?
- O, 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 k*ll the other.
Thou,
why, thou wilt quarrel with
a man that has a hair more
or a hair less in his
beard than thou hast.
Thou wilt quarrel with a man for
cracking nuts, having
no other reason
but that thou hast 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
hath been beaten
as addle as an egg for
quarreling.
Thou hast quarreled with a man
for coughing in the street,
because he has awakened thy dog
that hath lain
asleep in the sun.
And yet thou wilt tutor
me from quarreling?
- By my head, here
come the Capulets.
- Ooh, by my heel, I care not.
- Gentlemen, good e'en.
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.
- Oh, can you not take some
occasion without giving?
- Mercutio, thou
consort'st with Romeo.
- Consort, oh, what, dost
thou make us minstrels?
An thou makes minstrels of us,
look to hear nothing
but discords.
Here's my fiddlestick, here's
that shall make you dance.
Zounds, consort!
- We talk here in the
public haunt of men.
Either withdraw unto
some private place
and reason coldly of your
grievances or else depart.
Here, all eyes gaze on us.
- Men's eyes were made
to look; 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'll be hanged, sir,
if he wear your livery.
Marry, go before to field,
he'll 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
doth much excuse the
appertaining rage
to such a greeting.
Villain, am I none.
Therefore farewell, I
see thou know'st me not.
- Boy, this shall not
excuse the injuries
that thou hast done me.
Therefore, turn and draw.
- I do protest.
I never injured thee,
but love thee better
than thou canst devise.
And so, good Capulet,
which name I tender as dearly
as mine own, be satisfied.
- sh**t, calm, dishonorable,
vile submission!
Alla Stoccata carries it away.
Tybalt, you rat-catcher,
will you walk?
- What wouldst
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,
drybeat 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 Passado.
- Draw, Benvolio, beat
down their weapons.
Gentlemen, for shame,
forbear this outrage!
Tybalt, Mercutio.
The Prince expressly
hath forbid this bandying
in Verona streets.
Hold, Tybalt, Good Mercutio.
- Away, Tybalt.
- I am hurt.
A plague on both your Houses.
I am spent.
Is he gone and hath nothing?
- What, art thou hurt?
- Aye, aye, a
scratch, a scratch.
Marry, 'tis enough.
Where's my page?
Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.
- Well, courage, man,
the hurt cannot be much.
- No, 'tis not so
deep as a well,
nor so wide as a church door,
but 'tis enough, 'twill serve.
Ask for me tomorrow, you
shall find me a grave man.
I'm peppered, I
warrant, for this world.
A plague on both your Houses.
Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse,
a cat to scratch a man to death.
Why the devil came
you between us?
I was hurt under your arm.
- I thought all for the best.
- Oh, help me into
some house, Benvolio,
or I shall faint.
A plague on both your Houses.
They've made worms' meat of me.
I have it, and soundly
too, your Houses!
- This gentleman, the
Prince's near ally,
my very friend, hath
got this mortal hurt
in my behalf.
My reputation stained
with Tybalt's slander,
Tybalt that but an hour
hath been my cousin.
O, sweet Juliet,
thy beauty hath
made me effeminate,
and in my temper
softened valor's steel.
- O, Romeo, Romeo,
brave Mercutio's dead.
That gallant spirit
hath aspired the clouds
that too untimely here
did scorn the earth.
- This day's black fate
on more days doth depend.
This but begins the
woes others must end.
- Here comes the furious
Tybalt back again!
- Alive, in triumph,
and Mercutio slain?
Now, Tybalt, take the
villain back again,
that late thou gav'st me!
For Mercutio's soul is but a
little ways above our heads,
staying for thine
to keep him company.
Either thou or I or
both must go with him.
- Thou wretched boy, that
didst consort him here,
shalt with him hence.
- Romeo, away, begone!
The citizens are up
and Tybalt slain.
Stand not amazed.
The Prince will doom thee
death if thou art taken.
Hence, begone, away!
- O, I am Fortune's fool!
- Why dost thou stay?
- Where are the vile
beginners of this fray?
- Oh 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!
Oh my brother's child.
Oh Prince, oh cousin, husband,
oh, the blood is spilled
of my dear kinsman.
Prince, as thou art true,
for blood of ours,
shed blood of Montague!
Oh cousin, cousin.
- Benvolio, who began this fray?
- Tybalt, here slain, whom
Romeo's hand did slay.
Romeo that spoke him
fair 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.
Romeo he cries aloud,
"Hold, friends!
"Hold, friends, friends, part!"
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 it 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.
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 doth 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.
- No!
- I have an interest in
your hate's proceeding,
my blood for your rude
brawls doth 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
pleadings 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 the body,
and attend our will.
Mercy but murders,
pardoning those that k*ll.
- Gallop apace, you
fiery-footed steeds,
towards Phoebus' lodging.
Such a waggoner as Phaeton
would whip you to the west,
and bring in cloudy
night immediately.
Spread thy close curtain,
love-performing night,
that runaway's 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 wilt lie upon
the wings of night
whiter than new snow
on 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!
Oh!
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 hath new robes
and may not wear them,
oh, 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 hast thou there, the cords
that Romeo bid thee fetch?
- Ay, ay, the cords.
- Ay me, what news?
Why dost thou wring thy hands?
- Ah weraday, he's dead,
he's dead, he's dead.
We are undone,
lady, we are undone!
Alack the day, he's gone,
he's k*lled, he's dead!
- Can heaven be so envious?
- Romeo can!
Though heaven cannot!
Oh Romeo, Romeo!
Who ever would have
thought it, Romeo?
- What devil art thou
that dost torment me thus?
Hath Romeo slain himself?
Say thou but, ay and that
bare vowel I shall poison more
than the death-darting
eye of c*ck.
I am not I if
there be such an I!
- 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.
- Oh break, my heart, poor
bankrupt break at once.
- Oh Tybalt, Tybalt!
The best friend I had.
Oh 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?
- Tybalt is dead,
and Romeo banished.
Romeo that k*lled
him, he is banished.
- Oh God, did Romeo's
hand shed Tybalt's blood?
- It did, it did,
alas the day, it did.
- Oh serpent heart hid
with a flowering face.
Did ever dragon
keep so fair a cave?
Beautiful tyrant,
fiend angelical.
Was ever book containing
such vile matter
so fairly bound?
Oh that deceit should dwell
in such a gorgeous palace!
- There's no trust.
No faith, no honesty in men.
All perjured, all forsworn,
all naught, all dissemblers.
Ah, where's my man?
Give me some aqua vitae!
These grief's, 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.
Oh what a beast was
I to chide at him!
- Will you speak well of
him that k*lled your cousin?
- Shall I speak ill of
him that is my husband?
Oh poor my lord, what tongue
shall smooth thy name,
when I, thy three-hours
wife, have mangled it?
But wherefore, villain,
didst thou k*ll my cousin?
That villain cousin would
have k*lled my husband.
Back, foolish tears, back
to your native spring.
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 m*rder*d me.
I would forget it fain, but
oh, it presses to my memory
like damned guilty
deeds to sinners' minds.
Tybalt is dead and
Romeo banished.
That banished, that
one word banished,
hath slain ten thousand Tybalts.
Tybalt's death was woe
enough, if it had ended there,
or if sour woe
delights in fellowship
why followed not, when
she said "Tybalt's dead,"
Thy father or thy
mother, nay, or both?
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'll to my wedding bed.
And death, not Romeo,
take my maidenhead.
- Hie to your chamber.
I'll find Romeo to comfort you.
I wot well where he is.
Hark ye, your Romeo
will be here at night.
I'll to him.
He is hid at Laurence cell.
- Oh 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.
- Banishment?
Be merciful, say death.
For exile hath more
terror in his look,
much more than death.
Do not say banishment!
- Hence from Verona
art thou banished.
Be patient for the
world is broad and wide.
- There is no world
without Verona walls,
but purgatory,
t*rture, hell itself.
Hence banished is
banished from the world.
And world's exile is death.
Then banished is
death mis-termed!
Calling death banished,
thou cutt'st my head off
with a golden ax, and
smilest upon the stroke
that murders me.
- Oh deadly sin, oh
rude unthankfulness!
Thy fault our law calls
death, but the kind Prince,
taking thy part, hath
rushed aside the law,
and turned that hard
word death to banishment.
This is dear mercy
and thou seest it not.
- 'Tis t*rture, 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.
But Romeo may not,
he is banished.
Flies may do this but
I from this must fly.
And sayest thou yet
that exile is not death?
Hadst thou no poison mixed,
no sharp-ground knife,
no sudden mean of death,
though ne'er so mean,
but banished to k*ll me?
Banished?
Friar, the damned use
that word in hell.
Howling attends it.
How hast 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 but speak a word!
- Oh thou wilt speak
again of banishment!
- I'll give thee armor
to keep off that word,
adversity's sweet milk,
philosophy, to comfort thee.
- 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!
- Oh then I see that
mad men have no ears!
- How should they when
that wise men have no eyes?
- Let me dispute with
thee of thy estate.
- Thou canst not speak of
that thou dost not feel.
Wert thou as young as
I, Juliet thy love,
An hour but married,
Tybalt m*rder*d,
doting like me and
like me banished,
then mightst thou speak!
Then mightst 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.
Hark how they knock.
Who's there?
Romeo arise, thou wilt be taken.
Stay awhile!
Stand up, run to my study.
Oh!
By and by!
God's will, what
simpleness is this?
I come, I come!
Who knocks so hard?
Whence come you?
What's your will?
- Let me come in and
you shall know my errand.
I come from lady Juliet.
- Welcome, then.
- Oh holy Friar, oh
tell me holy Friar,
where is my lady's
lord, where's Romeo?
- There on the ground with
his own tears made drunk.
- Oh he is even in
my mistress' case.
Just in her case!
Oh woeful sympathy.
Even so lies she,
blubbering and weeping,
weeping and blubbering.
Stand up, stand up!
Stand an you be a man!
For Juliet's sake, for
her sake, rise and stand!
- Oh nurse!
- Ah sir, ah sir,
death's the end of all.
- Spak'st thou of Juliet?
How is it with her?
Where is she and how doth
she and what says she?
- Oh 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 g*n,
did m*rder her.
As that name's cursed
hand m*rder*d her kinsman.
Oh tell me, Friar, tell me,
in what vile part of this
anatomy doth 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.
Thou hast amazed me,
by my holy order,
I thought thy disposition
better tempered.
Hast thou slain Tybalt?
Wilt thou slay thy self?
And slay thy lady too
that lives in thee?
By doing damned
hate upon thy self?
Oh what, rouse thee,
man, thy Juliet is alive,
There art thou happy.
Tybalt would k*ll thee,
but thou slewest Tybalt.
There art thou happy.
The law which threatened
death becomes thy friend
and turns it to exile.
There art thou happy.
A pack of blessings
light up upon thy back,
happiness courts thee
in her best array,
but like a misbehaved
and sullen child,
thou poutst 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 canst
not pass to Mantua,
where thou shalt 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 wentst
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.
- Oh lord!
I could have stayed here all
the night to hear good counsel.
Oh, what learning is!
My lord, I'll 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'll find out your man,
and he shall signify
from time to time
every good hap to you
that chances here.
Give me thy hand.
'Tis 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'll
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 time to woo.
Madam, good night.
Commend me to your daughter.
- I will, and know her
mind early tomorrow.
Tonight she is mew'd
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's love.
And bid her, now mark you
me, on Wednesday next,
but soft, what day is this?
- Monday, my lord.
- Monday?
Aha.
Well, Wednesday is too soon,
a Thursday let it be,
a Thursday, tell her,
she shall be married
to this noble earl.
Will you be ready?
Do you like this haste?
- My lord, I would that
Thursday were tomorrow.
- Well, get you gone,
a 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, h*.
Afore me, it is so very late,
that we may call it early
by and by.
- Wilt 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
yon 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.
- Yon light is not
daylight, I know it, I.
It is some meteor
that the sun exhales.
To be to thee this
night a torchbearer,
and light thee on
thy way to Mantua.
Therefore stay yet, thou
needst not to be gone.
- Let me be ta'en, let
me be put to death.
I am content so thou
wilt have it so.
I'll say yon gray is
not the morning's eye,
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 ist, my soul?
Let's talk, it is not day.
- It is, it is, hie
hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that
sings so out of tune,
straining harsh discords
and unpleasing sharps.
Oh now be gone, more
light and light it grows.
- More light and light,
more dark and dark our woes.
- Madame!
- 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'll descend.
- Art thou gone so?
Love, lord, ay husband, friend?
I must hear from thee
everyday in the hour,
For in a minute
there are many days.
Oh 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.
- Oh thinkst thou we
shall ever meet again?
- I doubt it not, and all
these woes shall serve
for sweet discourses
in our time to come.
- Oh 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 lookst pale.
- And trust me, Love,
in my eye so do you.
Dry sorrow drinks our blood.
Adieu, adieu.
- Oh Fortune, Fortune,
all men call thee fickle.
Be fickle, Fortune,
for then I hope thou
wilt not keep him long,
but send him back.
- h* daughter, are you up?
Why, how now, Juliet?
- Madam, I am not well.
- Evermore weeping for
your cousin's death?
What, wilt thou wash him
from his grave with tears?
An if thou couldst, thou
couldst not make him live.
- Yet let me weep for
such a feeling loss.
- Well, girl, thou weepst
not so much for his death,
as that the villain lives
which slaughtered him.
- What villain, Madam?
- That same villain, Romeo.
- God pardon him.
I do with all my heart,
and yet no man like he
doth grieve my heart.
- That is because the
traitor m*rder*r 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.
And weep no more.
I'll send to one in Mantua,
where that same banished
runagate doth live,
shall give him such
an unaccustomed dram,
that he shall soon
keep Tybalt company.
- 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.
Oh how my heart abhors
to hear him named
and cannot come to him.
- Find thou the means,
and I'll find such a man.
But now I'll tell thee
joyful tidings, girl.
- And joy comes well
in such a needy time.
What are they, I
beseech your ladyship?
- Well, well, thou hast
a careful father, child,
one who, to put thee
from thy heaviness,
hath sorted out a
sudden day of joy,
that thou expectest 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 doth drizzle dew,
but for the sunset
of my brother's son
it rains downright.
How now, a conduit, girl?
What, still in tears?
Evermore showering?
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?
Doth she not give us thanks?
Is she not proud?
Doth she not count her blessed,
unworthy as she is
that we have wrought
so worthy a gentleman
to be her bridegroom?
- 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 now, how
now, 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 to 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 a Thursday
or never after look
me in the face.
No, speak not, reply
not, do not answer me!
My fingers itch.
Wife, we scarce thought us blest
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.
- 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, work, play,
alone, in company,
and still my care hath
been to have her matched!
And having now provided a
gentleman of noble parentage,
stuffed, as they say,
with honorable parts,
proportioned as one's
thought would wish a man.
And then to have a
wretched puling fool,
to answer I'll not
wed, I cannot love,
I am too young, I
pray you, pardon me.
But an you will not
wed, I'll pardon you!
Graze where you will, you
shall not house with me.
Thursday is near.
Lay hand on heart, advise.
And you be mine, I'll
give you to my friend,
and you be not, hang, beg,
starve, die in the streets,
for by my soul, I'll
ne'er acknowledge thee,
nor what is mine shall
never do thee good!
Trust to't, bethink you,
I'll not be forsworn.
- Is there no Pity
sitting in the clouds,
that sees into the
bottom of my grief?
Oh sweet my mother,
cast me not away,
delay this marriage
for a month, a week...
- Talk not to me, for
I'll not speak a word.
Do as thou wilt, for
I have done with thee.
- Oh God!
Oh 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 sayest thou?
Hast 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 ne'er come
back to challenge you.
Then, since the case so
stands as now it doth,
I think it best you
married with the County.
Oh he's a lovely gentleman!
Romeo's a dishclout to him.
An eagle, Madam, hath
not so green, so quick,
so fair an eye as Paris hath.
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.
- Speakst thou from thy heart?
- And from my soul
too, else beshrew them both.
- Amen.
- What?
- Well thou hast comforted
me marvelous much.
Go in and tell my
lady I am gone.
Having displeased my
father, to Laurence cell,
to make confession
and to be absolved.
- Marry, I will!
And this is wisely done.
- Ancient damnation!
Oh most wicked fiend!
Go, counselor.
Thou and my bosom
henceforth shall be twain.
I'll 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.
- Good sir, her father
counts it dangerous
that she doth give her
sorrow so much sway.
And in his wisdom
hastes our marriage.
- I would I knew not
why it should be slowed.
Look sir, here comes the
lady towards 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's a certain text.
- Come you to make
confession to this father?
- To answer that, I
should confess to you.
- 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 wrongst it more than
tears with that report.
Thy face is mine, and
thou hast 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 ye.
Till then, adieu, and
keep this holy kiss.
- Oh shut the door, and
when thou hast done so,
come weep with me, past
hope, past cure, past help.
- Oh 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 hearest of this,
unless thou tell me
how I may prevent it.
If in thy wisdom thou
canst give no help,
do thou but call
my resolution wise,
and with this knife
I'll help it presently.
God joined my heart and
Romeo's, thou our hands,
and ere this hand, by
thee to Romeo sealed,
shall be the label
to another deed,
or my true heart with
treacherous revolt
turn to another, this
shall slay them both.
Be not so long to speak!
I long to die!
If what thou speakst
speak not of remedy.
- Hold, daughter, I
do spy a kind of hope.
If rather than to
marry County Paris,
thou hast the strength
of will to slay thyself,
then is it likely
thou wilt undertake
a thing like death to
chide away this shame,
and if thou darest,
I'll give thee remedy.
- Oh 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 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 distilled
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 livest.
And in this borrowed
likeness of shrunk death
thou shalt continue
four and twenty 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 shalt be borne to
that same ancient vault
where all the kindred
of the Capulets lie.
In the mean time,
against thou shalt 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, oh
tell not me of fear.
- Hold, get you gone,
be strong and prosperous
in this resolve.
I'll 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.
- What, is my daughter
gone to Friar Laurence?
- 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
Laurence to fall prostrate here,
and beg your pardon.
Pardon, I beseech you.
Henceforward I am
ever ruled by you.
- Go, send for the County.
Go tell him of this.
Oh, this is well.
Stand up.
This is ast should be.
I'll have this knot knit
up tomorrow morning.
- 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.
Now, afore God, this
reverend holy Friar,
our whole city is
much bound to him.
- We shall be short
in our provision.
'Tis now near night.
- Hush, I will stir about,
And all things shall be
well, I warrant thee.
I will play the
housewife for this once.
Go thou to Juliet,
help to deck up her.
I'll not to bed.
My heart is wondrous light,
since this same wayward
child 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 knowst,
is cross and full of sin.
- What are you busy?
Need you my help?
- No, Madam.
We have culled such
necessaries as are behoveful
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 hast 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'll 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 hath
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 hath 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's 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 these many
hundred years the bones
of all my buried
ancestors are packed?
Where bloody Tybalt,
yet but green in earth,
lies festering 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!
Oh if I wake, shall
I not be distraught,
environed with all
these hideous fears,
and madly play with my
forefather's 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?
Oh 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's 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 c*ck hath crowed.
The curfew-bell hath
rung, 'tis three o'clock.
Look to the baked
meats, good Angelica,
spare not for cost.
- Go, you cotquean, go,
get you to bed.
Faith, you'll be sick tomorrow
for this night's watching.
- No, not a whit.
What I have watched ere now
all night for lesser cause,
and ne'er 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...
- Make haste, make
haste, make haste!
Oh good faith, 'tis day.
The County will be here
with music straight,
for so he said he would.
I hear him near.
Nurse! Wife!
What h*! What, Nurse I say!
Go waken Juliet,
go and trim her up.
I'll 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, Ladybird?
Fie, you slug-a-bed!
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 hath
set up his rest that you
shall rest but little.
God forgive me, marry and Amen.
How sound is she asleep!
I must needs wake her.
Madam, Madam, Madam!
Ay, let the County
take you in your bed,
he'll fright you up, i'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.
Oh weraday, that
ever I was born!
Some aqua vitae, h*!
My lord, my lady!
- What noise is here?
- Oh lamentable day!
- What is the matter?
- Look, look! Oh heavy day!
- Oh me, oh me, my
child, my only life!
Revive, look up, or
I shall die with thee!
Help! Help!
Call help! - For shame,
bring Juliet forth,
her lord is come.
- She's dead!
Deceased, she's dead!
Alack the day.
- Alack the day, she's dead,
she's dead, she's dead!
- Ha! Let me see her.
Out, alas, she's cold.
- Oh lamentable day!
- Oh woeful time.
- Death lies on her
like an untimely frost
upon the sweetest
flower of all the field.
- Come, is the bride
ready to go to Church?
- Ready to go, but
never to return.
Death is my son-in-Law,
Death is my heir!
My daughter he hath 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 doth it give me
such a sight as this?
Oh love, oh life, not
life but love in death!
- Peace oh, for shame!
Confusion's cure lives
not in these confusions.
Heaven and yourself had
part in this fair maid,
now heaven hath all, and all
the better is it for the maid!
Dry up your tears
and as the custom is,
in all her best array
bear her to church.
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.
- All things that we
ordained festival,
turn from their office
to black funeral.
Our instruments to
melancholy bells,
our bridal flowers serve
for a buried corse.
Our solemn hymns to
sullen dirges turn,
and all things change
them to the contrary.
- 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.
News from Verona!
How now, Balthasar!
Dost thou not bring me
letters from the friar?
How doth my lady?
Is my father well?
How fares 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
Capel's 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.
Oh pardon me for
bringing these ill news,
since you did leave
it for my office, sir.
- Is it e'en so?
Then I defy you, stars!
Thou knowest my lodging.
Get me ink and paper
and hire post horses.
I will hence tonight.
- I do beseech you,
sir, have patience.
Your looks are pale and wild
and do import some misadventure.
- Hush, thou art deceived.
Hast thou no letters
to me from the friar?
- No, my good lord.
- No matter, get thee gone
and hire those horses.
I'll be with thee straight.
Well Juliet, I will
lie with thee tonight.
Let's see for means.
Oh 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.
Noting this penury
to myself I said
and if a man did
need a poison now,
whose sale is present
death in Mantua,
Here is a caitiff wretch
would sell it him.
Oh this same thought
did but forerun my need,
and this same needy
man must sell it me.
What h*, 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.
- 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 fearest to die?
Death is in thy looks, 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 murders in
this loathsome world
than these poor compounds
that thou mayst not sell.
I sell thee poison,
thou hast 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, h*!
- 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 accompany 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.
Friar John, go hence,
Get me an iron crow and bring
it straight into my cell.
- Brother, I'll bring it thee.
- Now must I to
the monument alone,
within this three hours
will fair Juliet wake.
Poor living corse, closed
in a dead man's tomb!
- Give me the light and
stand thou all aloof.
Yet take it hence 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,
but thou shalt hear it.
Whistle then to me as signal
that thou hearest
something approach.
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.
Oh 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 doth approach.
What cursed foot wanders
this way tonight?
- Give me the wrenching iron.
Hold, take this letter.
See thou deliver it
to my lord and father.
Give me the light.
Upon thy life I charge thee,
whatsoe'er thou hearest
or seest, 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, be gone.
But if thou jealous
dost return to pry
in what I further
shall intend to do,
by heaven, I will tear
thee joint by joint
and strew this hungry
churchyard with thy limbs.
- I will be gone sir
and not trouble you.
- So shalt thou
show me friendship.
Take thou that.
Live and be prosperous
and farewell good fellow.
- For all this same,
I'll 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'll cram
thee with more food.
- Stop thy unhallowed
toil, vile Montague!
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.
Put not another sin upon my head
by urging me to fury.
Oh be gone!
- Oh lord! I will
go call the watch!
- By heaven I love thee
better than myself.
Stay not, be gone.
Live and hereafter say,
a madman's mercy
bid thee run away.
- I do defy thy conjurations
and apprehend thee
for a felon here.
- Wilt thou provoke me?
Then have at thee, boy!
Ha! - Ah!
- Oh 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?
Oh give me thy hand,
one writ with me
in sour misfortune's book.
I'll bury thee in
a triumphant grave.
A grave?
Oh 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 oft when men are
at the point of death,
have they been merry
which their keepers call
a lightening before death.
Oh how may I call
this a lightening?
Oh my Love,
my wife,
Death that hath sucked
the honey of thy breath,
hath 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, liest thou there
in thy bloody sheet?
Oh 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!
Oh, sweet 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.
Oh 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,
oh 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's to my love.
Oh true apothecary,
thy drugs are quick.
Thus with a kiss I die.
- Saint Francis be my speed.
How oft tonight have my old
feet stumbled at graves?
Who's there?
- Here's 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 burneth
in the Capel's Monument.
- It doth so, holy sir,
and there's my master,
one that you love.
- Who is it?
- Romeo.
- How long hath 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'll go alone.
Fear comes upon me.
Oh much I fear some
ill unlucky thing.
- As I did sleep under
this yew tree here,
I dreamt my master
and another fought,
and that my master slew him.
- Romeo!
Oh!
Alack, alack, what blood
is this which stains
the stony entrance
of this sepulcher?
Romeo?
Oh!
Pale!
Who else?
What, Paris too?
And steeped in blood?
Oh what an unkind hour is guilty
of this lamentable chance?
The lady stirs.
- Oh 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
hath thwarted our attempts.
Come, come away. h*!
Thy husband in thy
bosom there lies dead!
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's here?
A cup closed in my
true love's hand?
Poison I see, hath
been his timeless end.
Oh churl, drunk all and
left no friendly drop
to help me after.
I will kiss thy lips,
haply some poison yet doth
hang on them to make me
die with a restorative.
Thy lips are warm.
Lead boy, which way?
- Yea noise?
Then I'll be brief.
Oh happy dagger.
This is thy sheath.
There rest, and let me die.
- This is the place,
there where the torch doth burn.
- The ground is bloody.
Oh most pitiful sight.
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's Romeo's man.
We found him in the churchyard.
Hold him in safety till
the Prince come hither.
- Here's a
Friar with instruments upon him
fit to open dead men's tombs.
- A great
suspicion. Stay the Friar too.
- Romeo! Romeo!
Romeo! Juliet!
Juliet! Juliet!
Paris!
- What misadventure
is so early up,
that calls our person
from our morning's rest?
- What should it be that
they so shriek abroad?
- 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 k*lled.
- Oh heavens!
Oh Wife, look how
our daughter bleeds!
- Oh 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,
Benvolio is dead tonight.
Grief and his own hand
hath stopped his breath.
What further woe
conspires against my age?
- Look and thou shalt see.
- Oh most woeful hour
that ere time saw.
- Oh thou untaught!
What manners is in this,
to press before thy
father to a grave?
- Seal up the mouth of
outrage for a while,
till we can clear
these ambiguities,
and know their spring, their
head, their true descent.
Bring forth the
parties of suspicion.
- I am the greatest
able to do least,
yet most suspected
as the time and place
doth make against me
of this direful m*rder.
- Then say at once what
thou dost know in this.
- 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 k*ll 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,
but he which bore my letter,
Friar John, was
stayed by accident,
and yesternight
returned my letter back.
Then, all alone came I to take
her from her kindred's vault.
But when I came, some minute
ere the time of her awaking,
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.
- Where's Romeo's man?
What can he say in 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.
- 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 ope the tomb,
and by and by my
master drew on him,
and then I ran away
to call the watch.
- This letter doth 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 k*ll your joys with love.
And I, for winking
at your discords too,
have lost a brace of kinsmen.
All are punished.
- Oh 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 raise her
statue in pure gold,
that while 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.
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RSC Live: Romeo and Juliet (2018)
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