2 households,
both alike in dignity.
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene.
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these 2 foes,
a pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
whose misadventured piteous overthrows
doth with their death bury their parents' strife.
The fearful passage of their death-marked love
and the continuance of their parents' rage,
which, but their children's end, naught could remove,
is now the 2 hours' traffic of our stage.
2 households,
both alike in dignity. In fair Verona,
where we lay our scene.
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these 2 foes,
a pair of star-cross'd lovers
take their life.
A dog of the house of Capulet moves me!
Ha ha ha!
Excrement...
In a urinal!
- Go rot! - Go rot!
The quarrel is between our masters.
And us their men!
Ha ha ha haaa!
Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.
Flesh!
Here comes of the house of Capulet!
Quarrel! I will back thee.
Boo! Ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha!
Whoo! Ha ha ha!
Boo! Ha ha ha!
I will bite my thumb at them;
which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it.
Huh?
Uhh...
Grr!
Go forth! I will back thee!
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
I do bite my thumb, sir!
Do you bite your thumb at us, sirs?
Is the law on our side if I say aye?
No!
No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir,
but I bite my thumb, sir!
Do you quarrel, sir?
Quarrel, sir? No, sir!
If you do, sir, I am for you! I serve as good a man as you!
No better?
Uh, uh...
Here comes our kinsman! Say "better"!
Yes, sir, better!
You lie!
Draw, if you be men!
Aah! Aah!
Part, fools! You know not what you do!
Put up your swords!
What, art thou drawn among these... heartless hinds?
Tsk tsk tsk.
Turn thee, Benvolio,
and look upon thy death.
I do but keep the peace.
Put up thy sword,
or manage it to part these men with me.
Peace?
I hate the word...
as I hate hell, all Montagues...
and thee.
Bang! Bang!
Bang.
Hey!
Aah!
Come forth! Come!
from ancient grudge brings new mutiny.
Give me my longsword, ho.
Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.
Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,
throw your mistempered weapons to the ground!
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
throw your mistempered weapons to the ground!
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.
O, where is Romeo? Saw you him today?
Right glad I am he was not at this fray.
Madam, underneath the grove of sycamore so early walking
did I see your son.
Many a morning hath he there been seen
with tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew.
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.
Why, then, O brawling love!
O loving hate! O anything, of nothing first create?
Heavy lightness, serious vanity,
misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms.
Black and portentous must this humor prove...
unless good counsel may the cause remove.
So please you, step aside.
I'll know his grievance or be much denied.
Come, madam. Let's away.
Good morrow, cousin.
Is the day so young?
But new struck, coz.
Ay me. Sad hours seem long.
Was that my father that went hence so fast?
It was.
What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?
Not having that which having makes them short.
- In love? - Out.
Of love?
Out of her favor where I am in love.
Alas that love, so gentle in his view,
should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!
Alas that love, whose view is muffled
still, should without eyes see pathways to his will.
Where shall we dine?
O me. What fray was here?
Coz, I...
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!
O heavy lightness, serious vanity,
misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms.
Feather of lead...
Dost thou not laugh?
No, coz, I rather weep.
Good heart, at what?
At thy good heart's oppression.
Farewell, my coz.
Soft! I will go along. And if you leave me so, you do me wrong.
But Montague is bound as well as I, in penalty alike;
and 'tis not hard, I think,
for men as 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.
Let 2 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.
This night I hold an old accustomed feast.
At my poor house look to behold this night.
Fresh female buds that make dark heaven light.
Hear all, all see,
and like her most whose merit most shall be.
Come, go with me!
Tell me in sadness, who is it that you love?
In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.
I aimed so near when I supposed you loved.
A right good marksman, 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,
nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes,
nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold.
Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?
She hath; and in that sparing makes huge waste.
Be ruled by me; forget to think of her.
Teach me how I should forget to think.
By giving liberty unto thine eyes!
Examine other beauties.
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.
Good day, good fellow.
The great, rich Capulet
holds an old accustomed feast.
A fair assembly.
Signor Placentio and his wife and daughters,
the lady widow of Vitruvio... mmm...
and her lovely nieces, Rosaline...
At this same ancient feast of Capulet's
sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so loves,
with all the admired beauties of Verona.
If you be not of the house of Montague,
come and crush a cup of wine.
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.
I'll go along, no such sight to be shown,
but to rejoice in splendor of mine own.
Juliet!
Uh! Ooh!
Nurse!
Nurse, where's my daughter? Call her forth to me.
I bade her come. God forbid!
Juliet!
Madam, I am here. What is your will?
Nurse, give us leave awhile, we must talk in secret.
Nurse! Come back again. I have remembered me,
thou's hear our counsel.
Nurse, thou knowest my daughter's of a pretty age.
Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed.
By my count, I was your mother much upon these years...
that you are now a maid.
Thus then in brief:
The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.
A man, young lady!
Lady, such a man as all the world...
Why, he's a man of wax.
Verona's summer hath not such a flower.
Nay, he's a flower, in faith... a very flower.
This night you shall behold him at our feast.
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.
Nay, bigger.
Women grow by men.
Ahh.
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.
Go!
We follow thee.
Juliet. Oh!
Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.
Look out for the plot!
Die a beggar!
Ha ha ha!
Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.
Not I, believe me.
You have dancing shoes with nimble soles.
I have a soul of lead.
You are a lover! Borrow cupid's wings
and soar with them above a common bound.
Under love's heavy burden do I sink.
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.
Every man betake him to his legs!
But 'tis no wit to go.
Why, may one ask?
I dreamt a dream tonight.
And so did I.
And what was yours?
That dreamers often lie.
In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.
O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife,
and she comes in shape
no bigger than an agate stone
on the forefinger of an alderman,
drawn with a team of little atomies
over men's noses as they lie asleep.
Her chariot is an empty hazelnut.
Her wagoner a small gray-coated gnat.
And in this state, she gallops night by night
through lovers' brains, and then they dream of...
love;
o'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees.
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
and then dreams he of cutting foreign throats.
And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or 2 and sleeps again.
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, good Mercutio. Peace.
Thou talkest 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 within my breast,
by some vile forfeit of untimely death.
But he that hath the steerage of my course...
direct my sail.
On, lusty gentlemen!
Your drugs are quick.
Ah!
Ah, I have seen the day that I could tell a whispering tale
in a fair lady's ear such as would please.
Madam, your mother calls.
Will you now deny to dance?
A man, young lady, such a man.
What, dares that slave come hither
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 that villain Romeo.
A Montague, our foe.
Romeo is it?
'Tis he.
Content thee, gentle coz. Let him alone.
I would not for the wealth of all this town
here in my house do him disparagement.
Therefore be patient, take no note of him.
I'll not endure him.
He shall be endured!
Go to. What, goodman boy?
I say he shall! Go to!
Uncle, 'tis a shame.
You'll make a mutiny among my guests!
Did my heart love till now?
Forswear it, sight.
For I never saw true beauty till this night.
If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine,
the gentle sin is this.
Ahem.
My lips, 2 blushing pilgrims,
ready stand to smooth
that rough touch
with a tender kiss.
Good pilgrim,
you do wrong your hand too much,
which mannerly devotion shows in this.
For saints have hands
that pilgrims' hands do touch,
and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers, too?
Ay, pilgrim,
lips that they must use in prayer.
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do.
They pray, grant thou,
lest faith turn to despair.
Saints do not move,
though grant for prayer's sake.
Then move not while my prayer's effect I take.
Dave!
Oh!
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.
Ha ha ha ha!
Juliet. Juliet. Oh!
Juliet. Juliet.
Juliet!
Madam, your mother craves a word with you.
Come. Let's away!
Is she a Capulet?
His name is Romeo,
and he's a Montague,
the only son of your great enemy.
Away, be gone, the sport is at its best.
Ay, so I fear, the more is my unrest.
My only love, sprung from my only hate.
Too early seen unknown, and known too late.
Prodigious birth of love it is to me
that I must love a loathed enemy.
I will withdraw.
But this intrusion shall, now seeming sweet,
convert to bitterest gall.
Romeo!
Humors!
Madman! Passion!
Lover!
I will conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes,
by her high forehead and her scarlet lip,
by her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh!
O, Romeo, that she were an open-ass, and thou a pop'rin pear!
He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
Romeo!
Good night.
this field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.
Oh!
But soft!
What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east,
and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun,
and kill the envious moon,
who is already sick and pale with grief
that thou her maid art far more fair than she.
Be not her maid, since she is envious.
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
and none but fools do wear it.
Oh...
cast it off.
It is my lady. It is my love.
O that she knew she were.
Ay me.
She speaks.
Speak again, bright angel.
Romeo.
O, 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 not 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, doth thy name,
and for thy name, which is no part of thee,
take all myself.
I take thee at thy word.
Aah!
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?
Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.
How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
The garden walls are high and hard to climb,
and the place death, considering who thou art.
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 murder thee.
I have night's cloak to hide me
from their eyes.
But thou love me, let them find me here.
My life were better ended by their hate
than death prorogued,
wanting of thy love.
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 "Ay," and I will take thy word.
Yet, if thou swearest, thou mayst prove false.
O gentle Romeo, if thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.
Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow,
that tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops.
O, swear not by the moon,
the inconstant moon,
that monthly changes in her circled orb,
lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
What shall I swear by?
Do not swear at all.
Or if thou 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.
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!
Juliet!
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.
Juliet!
By-and-by I come!
Juliet! - But if thou meanest not well,
I do beseech thee...
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.
Juliet!
Good night.
Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books;
but love from love,
toward school with heavy looks.
Romeo!
What o'clock tomorrow shall I send to thee?
By the hour of 9:00.
I will not fail. 'Tis twenty year till then.
Good night.
Good night, good night.
Parting is such sweet sorrow,
that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
Juliet!
Almighty is the powerful grace that lies in plants,
herbs, stones, and their true qualities.
For naught so vile that on the earth doth live,
but to the earth some special good doth give...
and naught so good but, strained from that fair use,
revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,
and vice sometimes by action dignified.
Within the infant rind of this weak flower
poison is resident...
and medicine power.
For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;
being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
2 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?
Good morrow, Romeo.
Good morrow.
Young son, it argues a distempered head
so soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.
Or if not so, then here I hit it right...
Our Romeo hath not seen his bed tonight.
The last is true. The sweeter rest was mine.
God pardon sin. Wast thou with Rosaline?
Rosaline? My ghostly father, no.
I have forgot that name and that name's woe.
That's my good son.
But where then hast thou been?
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.
We met, we wooed,
we 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.
Thou chid'st me oft for loving Rosaline.
For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.
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 well knew thy love did read by rote,
that could not spell.
For this alliance may so happy prove
to turn your households' rancor to pure love.
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 will sure run mad.
Tybalt 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,
run through the ear with a love song,
the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's butt-shaft.
And is he a man to encounter Tybalt?
Why, what is Tybalt?
More than Prince of Cats.
He is the courageous captain of compliments.
He fights as you sing prick-song...
keeps time, distance, and proportion.
He rests his minim rests,
one, two...
and the third in your bosom.