Romeo and Juliet

Friar Laurence. The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,

Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light,

And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels

From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels.

Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye,

The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry,

I must up-fill this osier cage of ours

With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.

The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb;

What is her burying grave that is her womb,

And from her womb children of divers kind

We sucking on her natural bosom find,

Many for many virtues excellent,

None but for some, and yet all different.

O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies

In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities!

For nought so vile that on the earth doth live

But to the earth some special good doth give;

Nor aught so good but, strain'd from that fair use,

Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,

And vice sometime's by action dignified.

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, slays 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.

Enter Romeo

Romeo. Good morrow, father.

Friar Laurence. Benedicite!

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?—

Young son, it argues a distemper'd head

So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.

Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,

And where care lodges sleep will never lie;

But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain

Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.

Therefore thy earliness doth me assure

Thou art up-rous'd with some distemperature;

Or if not so, then here I hit it right,

Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.

Romeo. That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.

Friar Laurence. God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline?

Romeo. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no;

I have forgot that name and that name's woe.

Friar Laurence. That's my good son; but where

hast thou been, then?

Romeo. 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.

I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo,

My intercession likewise steads my foe.

Friar Laurence. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;

Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.

Romeo. Then plainly know, my heart's dear love is set

On the fair daughter of rich Capulet.

As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;

And all combin'd, save what thou must combine

By holy marriage. When and where and how

We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow,

I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,

That thou consent to marry us to-day.

Friar Laurence. 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 wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!

How much salt water thrown away in waste,

To season love that of it doth not taste!

The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,

Thy old groans ring yet in my ancient ears;

Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit

Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet.

If e'er thou wast thyself and these woes thine,

Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline;

And art thou chang'd? pronounce this sentence then:

Women may fall when there's no strength in men.

Romeo. Thou chidd'st me oft for loving Rosaline.

Friar Laurence. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.

Romeo. And bad'st me bury love.

Friar Laurence. Not in a grave,

To lay one in, another out to have.

Romeo. I pray thee, chide not; she whom I love now

Doth grace for grace and love for love allow,

The other did not so.

Friar Laurence. O, she knew well

Thy love did read by rote and could not spell.

But come, young waverer, come, go with me,

In one respect I'll thy assistant be;

For this alliance may so happy prove

To turn your households' rancour to pure love.

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

Friar Laurence. Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast. [Exeunt.

Scene IV.

A Street

Enter Benvolio and Mercutio

Mercutio. Where the devil should this Romeo be?

Came he not home to-night?

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

Mercutio. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline,

Torments him so that he will sure run mad.

Benvolio. Tybalt, the kinsman of old Capulet,

Hath sent a letter to his father's house.

Mercutio. A challenge, on my life.

Benvolio. Romeo will answer it.

Mercutio. Any man that can write may answer

a letter.

Benvolio. Nay, he will answer the letter's master,

how he dares, being dared.

Mercutio. Alas, poor Romeo! he is already dead;

stabbed with a white wench's black eye; shot thorough

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?

Benvolio. Why, what is Tybalt?

Mercutio. More than prince of cats, I can tell you.

O, he is the courageous captain of compliments! He

fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance,

and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two,

and the third in your bosom; the very butcher of a

silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the

very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah,

the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the hay!

Benvolio. The what?

Mercutio. The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting

fantasticoes, these new tuners of accents! 'By Jesu,

a very good blade! a very tall man!'—Why, is not

this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be

thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers,

these pardonnez-mois, who stand so much

on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the

old bench? O, their bons, their bons!

Enter Romeo

Benvolio. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo.

Mercutio. Without his roe, like a dried herring. O

flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Now is he for the

numbers that Petrarch flowed in; Laura to his lady

was but a kitchen-wench; marry, she had a better

love to be-rhyme her; Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra

a gypsy; Helen and Hero hildings and harlots;

Thisbe a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose.—Signior

Romeo, bon jour! there's a French salutation

to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit

fairly last night.

Romeo. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit

did I give you?

Mercutio. The slip, sir, the slip; can you not

conceive?

Romeo. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was

great; and in such a case as mine a man may strain

courtesy.

Mercutio. That's as much as to say, such a case

as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams.

Romeo. Meaning, to curtsy.

Mercutio. Thou hast most kindly hit it.

Romeo. A most courteous exposition.

Mercutio. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.

Romeo. Pink for flower.

Mercutio. Right.

Romeo. Why, then is my pump well flowered.

Mercutio. 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

sole singular.

Romeo. O single-souled jest, solely singular for

the singleness!

Mercutio. Come between us, good Benvolio; my

wits fail.

Romeo. Switch and spurs, switch and spurs; or

I'll cry a match.

Mercutio. Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase,

I have done, for thou hast more of the wild-goose in

one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole

five. Was I with you there for the goose?

Romeo. Thou wast never with me for any thing

when thou was not there for the goose.

Mercutio. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.

Romeo. Nay, good goose, bite not.

Mercutio. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is

a most sharp sauce.

Romeo. And is it not well served in to a sweet

goose?

Mercutio. O, here's a wit of cheveril, that stretches

from an inch narrow to an ell broad!

Romeo. I stretch it out for that word 'broad,'

which added to the goose proves thee far and wide

a broad goose.

Mercutio. Why, is not this better now than groaning

for love? Now art thou sociable, now art thou

Romeo; now art thou what thou art, by art as well

as by nature; for this drivelling love is like a great

natural,—

Benvolio. Stop there, stop there.

Romeo. Here's goodly gear!

Enter Nurse and Peter

Mercutio. A sail, a sail!

Benvolio. Two, two; a shirt and a smock.

100Nurse. Peter!

Peter. Anon!

Nurse. My fan, Peter.

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

Nurse. God ye good morrow, gentlemen.

Mercutio. God ye good den, fair gentlewoman.

Nurse. Is it good den?

Mercutio. 'Tis no less, I tell you, for the hand of
the dial is now upon the prick of noon.

110Nurse. Out upon you! what a man are you!

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

Nurse. By my troth, it is well said; 'for himself
to mar,' quoth a'?—Gentlemen, can any of you tell
me where I may find the young Romeo?

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.

120Nurse. You say well.

Mercutio. Yea, is the worst well? very well took,
i' faith; wisely, wisely.

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

Benvolio. She will indite him to some supper.

Mercutio. So ho!

Romeo. What hast thou found?

Mercutio. No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a
lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be
130spent.—Romeo, will you come to your father's?
we'll to dinner thither.

Romeo. I will follow you.

Mercutio. Farewell, ancient lady; farewell, [singing]
'lady, lady, lady!'
[Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio.

Nurse. Marry, farewell!—I pray you, sir, what
saucy merchant was this, that was so full of his
ropery?

Romeo. A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear
himself talk, and will speak more in a minute than
140he will stand to in a month.

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

Peter. I saw no man use you at his pleasure; if I
had, my weapon should quickly have been out, I
150warrant you. I dare draw as soon as another man,
if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on
my side.

Nurse. Now, afore God, I am so vexed that every
part about me quivers. Scurvy knave!—Pray you,
sir, a word: and as I told you, my young lady bade
me inquire you out; what she bade me say, I will
keep to myself; but first let me tell ye, if ye should
lead her in a fool's paradise, as they say, it were a
very gross kind of behaviour, as they say; for the
160gentlewoman 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.

Romeo. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress.
I protest unto thee—

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

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

Nurse. I will tell her, sir, that you do protest,
170which, as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer.

Romeo. Bid her devise some means to come to shrift

This afternoon;

And there she shall at Friar Laurence' cell

Be shriv'd and married. Here is for thy pains.

Nurse. No, truly, sir, not a penny.

Romeo. Go to; I say you shall.

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

Romeo. And stay, good nurse; behind the abbey wall

Within this hour my man shall be with thee,

180

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.

Farewell; be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains.

Farewell; commend me to thy mistress.

Nurse. Now God in heaven bless thee! Hark you, sir.

Romeo. What say'st thou, my dear nurse?

Nurse. Is your man secret? Did you ne'er hear say,

Two may keep counsel, putting one away?

Romeo. I warrant thee, my man's as true as steel.

190Nurse. Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest lady—Lord,
Lord! when 'twas a little prating thing—O,
there is a nobleman in town, one Paris, that would
fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as
lieve see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger
her sometimes, and tell her that Paris is the properer
man; but, I'll warrant you, when I say so, she looks
as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not
rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter?

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

200Nurse. Ah, mocker! that's the dog's name; R 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.

Romeo. Commend me to thy lady.

Nurse. Ay, a thousand times.—[Exit Romeo] Peter!

Peter. Anon.

Nurse. Before, and apace.
[Exeunt.

Scene V.

Capulet's Orchard

Enter Juliet

Juliet. The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse;

In half an hour she promis'd to return.

Perchance she cannot meet him; that's not so.

O, she is lame! love's heralds should be thoughts,

Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams

Driving back shadows over lowering hills;

Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw Love,

And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.

Now is the sun upon the highmost hill

Of this day's journey, and from nine till twelve

Is three long hours, yet she is not come.

Had she affections and warm youthful blood,

She would be as swift in motion as a ball;

My words would bandy her to my sweet love,

And his to me;

But old folks, many feign as they were dead,

Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.—

Enter Nurse and Peter

O God, she comes!—O honey nurse, what news?

Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.

Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate. [Exit Peter.

Juliet. 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.

Nurse. I am aweary, give me leave awhile.

Fie, how my bones ache! what a jaunt have I had!

Juliet. I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news.

Nay, come, I pray thee, speak; good, good nurse, speak.

Nurse. Jesu, what haste? can you not stay awhile?

Do you not see that I am out of breath?

Juliet. 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?

Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice; you
know not how to choose a man. Romeo! no, not
40he; though his face be better than any man's, yet his
leg excels all men's; and for a hand, and a foot, and
a body, though they be not to be talked on, yet they
are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy,
but, I'll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy
ways, wench; serve God. What, have you dined at
home?

Juliet. No, no; but all this did I know before.

What says he of our marriage? what of that?

Nurse. Lord, how my head aches! what a head have I!

It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.

My back o' t'other side,—O, my back, my back!

Beshrew your heart for sending me about,

To catch my death with jaunting up and down!

Juliet. I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.

Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love?

Nurse. Your love says, like an honest gentleman,

And a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome,

And, I warrant, a virtuous,—Where is your mother?

Juliet. 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?'

Nurse. 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.

Juliet. Here's such a coil!—come, what says Romeo?

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

Juliet. I have.

Nurse. 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,

They'll be in scarlet straight at any news.

Hie you to church; I must another way,

To fetch a ladder, by the which your love

Must climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark.

I am the drudge, and toil in your delight.

Go; I'll to dinner; hie you to the cell.

Juliet. Hie to high fortune!—Honest nurse, farewell. [Exeunt.

Scene VI.

Friar Laurence's Cell

Enter Friar Laurence and Romeo

Friar Laurence. So smile the heavens upon this holy act

That after hours with sorrow chide us not!

Romeo. 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.

Friar Laurence. These violent delights have violent ends,

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,

Which as they kiss consume; the sweetest honey

Is loathsome in his own deliciousness,

And in the taste confounds the appetite.

Therefore love moderately, long love doth so;

Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.—

Enter Juliet

Here comes the lady. O, so light a foot

Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint!

A lover may bestride the gossamer

That idles in the wanton summer air,

And yet not fall, so light is vanity.

Juliet. Good even to my ghostly confessor.

Friar Laurence. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.

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

Romeo. Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy

Be heap'd like mine and that thy skill be more

To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath

This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue

Unfold the imagin'd happiness that both

Receive in either by this dear encounter.

Juliet. 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 half my sum of wealth.

Friar Laurence. 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. [Exeunt.

About This Book

Scene IV.

Scene V.

Scene VI.