Two households,
both alike in dignity, In fair Verona,
where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge
break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes
civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
Whose misadventured piteous overthrows Do
with their death bury their parents' strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,
And the continuance of their parents' rage,
Which, but their children's end,
nought could remove, Is now the two hours'
traffic of our stage; The which if you with
patient ears attend, What here shall miss,
our toil shall strive to mend.
I strike quickly, being moved.
But thou art not quickly moved
to strike.
A dog of the house of Montague
moves me.
To move is to stir;
and to be valiant is to stand: therefore,
if thou art moved, thou runn'st away.
A dog of that house shall move me to
stand: I will take the wall of any
man or maid of Montague's.
That shows thee a weak slave;
for the weakest goes to the wall.
Tis true; and therefore women,
being the weaker vessels, are ever
thrust to the wall:
Here comes two
of the house of the Montagues.
Quarrel, quarrel,
I will back thee.
How! turn thy back and run?
I will bite my thumb at them;
which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it.
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
I do bite my thumb, sir.
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
Come, come, come, come.
Come! RUN!
Abraham.
Open there.
Open, Open.
Open!
What, art thou drawn among these
heartless hinds?
Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.
A servant of the Capulets has killed
Abraham. Abraham has benn killed
at the hands of a Capulet!
What's this?
Abraham! Abraham! Abraham!
Where's my man? Where's my man!
What noise is this?
Abraham is dead.
Give me my sword!
Give me my long sword, ho!
Rebellious subjects,
enemies to peace,
Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,
Will they not hear?
What, ho!
you men, you beasts, That quench the fire of
your pernicious rage With purple fountains
issuing from your veins,
Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,
Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets,
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
Throw your mistemper'd weapons to the ground,
And hear the sentence of your moved prince.
If ever you disturb our streets again,
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
Good-morrow, cousin.
Is the day so young?
But new struck nine.
Ay me!
sad hours seem long.
What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?
Not having that, which, having,
makes them short.
In love?
Out--
Of love?
Out of her favour,
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!
Why, then, O brawling love!
O loving hate!
O any thing, of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness!
serious vanity!
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.
This love that thou hast shown
Doth add more grief to
too much of mine own.
Farewell, my coz.
Soft!
I will go along;
An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.
Tut, I have lost myself;
I am not here; This is not Romeo,
he's some other where.
Tell me in sadness,
who is that you love.
Bid a sick man in sadness make his will:
Ah, word ill urged to one that is so ill!
Juliet!
How now! who calls?
Your mother.
Come now, quick, quick!
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 remember'd me, thou's hear
our counsel.
Thou know'st my daughter's of
a pretty age.
Faith, I can tell her age
unto an hour.
How long is it now To Lammas-tide?
Even or odd, of all days in the year,
Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen.
Susan and she--God rest all Christian souls!
Were of an age: well, Susan is with God;
She was too good for me: but, as I said,
On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen;
That shall she, marry; I remember it well.
'Tis since the earthquake now eleven
years; And she was wean'd,
--I never shall forget it,
For then she could stand alone;
nay, by the rood, She could have run and
waddled all about; For even the day before,
she broke her brow: And then my husband
God be with his soul!
A' 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 holidame, The pretty wretch left
crying and said 'Ay.'
I warrant, an I should live a thousand years,
I never should forget it: 'Wilt thou not,
Jule?' quoth he;
And, pretty fool, it stinted and said 'Ay.'
And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse,
say I.
Peace, I have done.
God mark thee to his grace!
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?
To marry?
It is an honour that I dream not of.
An honour!
were not I thine only nurse,
I would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom
from thy teat.
Well, think of marriage now;
younger than you, Here in Verona,
ladies of esteem, Are made already mothers.
Thus then in brief:
The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.
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 fourteen years, Let two more summers
wither in their pride, Ere we may
think her ripe to be a bride.
Younger than she are happy
mothers made.
And too soon marr'd are those
so early made.
The earth hath swallow'd all my
hopes but she, But woo her, gentle
Paris, get her heart, This night
I hold an old accustom'd feast,
Whereto I have invited many a
guest, Such as I love; and you, among
the store, One more, most welcome, makes
my number more.
But my will to her consent is but a part.
Madam, Juliet.
Come quickly.
What say you?
can you love the gentleman?
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;
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.
At this same ancient feast of
Capulet's Sups the fair Rosaline whom
thou so lovest,
I aim'd so near, when I supposed
you loved.
A right fair mark, fair coz,
is soonest hit.
Good evening my lord.
Well, in that hit you miss:
She'll not be hit with Cupid's arrow;
she hath Dian's wit; And, in strong proof
of chastity well arm'd, From love's
weak childish bow she lives unharm'd.
She will not stay the siege of loving
terms, Nor bide the encounter of
assailing eyes, O, she is rich in
beauty, only poor, That when she dies
with beauty dies her store.
She is too fair, too wise, wisely too
fair, To merit bliss by making me
despair: She hath forsworn to love,
and in that vow Do I live dead that live
to tell it now.
Tut, man, one fire burns out
another's burning, One pain is lessen'd
by another's anguish;
Turn giddy, and be holp by
backward turning;
One desperate grief cures with
another's languish: Take thou some new
infection to thy eye, And the rank
poison of the old will die.
Be ruled by me, forget to think of her.
O, teach me how I should forget
to think.
Examine other beauties.
Farewell: thou canst not teach me
to forget.
One fairer than my love!
the all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match
since first the world begun.
Juliet, the county stays.
Go, girl, seek happy nights to
happy days.
Welcome, gentlemen!
ladies that have their toes Unplagued
with corns will have a bout with you.
Ah ha, my mistresses!
which of you all Will now deny to dance?
Romeo is here.
Romeo?
Yes sir.
Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe,
A villain that is hither come in
spite, To scorn at our solemnity this night
My fair ladies.
my noble lords, now the musicians of
center Rome, will pay for you the
beautiful galliard.
Young Romeo is it?
'Tis he, that villain Romeo.
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:
I'll not endure him.
He shall be endured:
I have seen the day That I have worn
a visor and could tell A whispering
tale in a fair lady's ear,
For shame!
I'll make you quiet.
What, cheerly, my hearts!
Put on the mask.
Leave this place at once.
Go.
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!
What lady is that, which doth enrich
the hand Of yonder knight?
I know not, sir.
The measure done, I'll watch her place
of stand, And, touching hers,
make blessed my rude hand.
Shall we rest?
If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with
a tender kiss.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your
hand too much, Which mannerly devotion
shows in this; For saints have hands
that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to
palm is holy palmers' kiss.
Have not saints lips, and holy
palmers too?
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use
in prayer.
O, then, dear saint, let lips do
what hands do; They pray, grant thou,
lest faith turn to despair.
Madam, your mother craves a word
with you.
Who is her mother?
Marry, bachelor, Her mother is the
lady of the house,
Is she a Capulet?
Where's he gone?
Where?
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!
My life is my foe's debt.
Can I go forward when my heart
is here?
Where the devil should this Romeo be?
Came he not home to-night?
Ah, that same pale hard-hearted wench,
that Rosaline.
Torments him so, that he will sure run mad.
Romeo, my cousin Romeo!
The fool is gone.
He is mad.
He is wise; And, on my lie, hath
stol'n him home to bed.
Call, call, call!
Call, good Mercutio.
Call?
Nay, I'll conjure too.
Romeo! humours!
madman! passion! lover!
Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh:
Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;
Hey! Come!
I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright
eyes, By her high forehead and her
scarlet lips, By her fine foot, straight
leg and quivering thigh And the
demesnes that there adjacent lie,
And if he hear thee,
thou wilt anger him.
This cannot anger him: my invocation
Is fair and honest, and in his mistres s'
name I conjure only but to raise up him.
Come, shall we go?
Go, then; for 'tis in vain To seek him
here that means not to be found.
Blind is his love and best befits the dark.
If love be blind, love cannot hit
the mark.
He jests at scars that never felt
a wound
But, soft!
what light through yonder window breaks?
O Romeo, Romeo!
wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;
'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!
that which we call a rose By any other
name would smell as sweet;
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; Henceforth
I never will be Romeo.
What man art thou
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 utterance,
yet I know the sound: Art thou not Romeo
and a Montague?
Neither, fair saint, if either
thee dislike.
How camest thou hither, tell me,
and wherefore?
The orchard walls are high and hard
to climb,
With love's light wings did I
o'er-perch these walls; For stony
limits cannot hold love out, Therefore
thy kinsmen are no let to me.
If they do see thee, they will
murder thee.
I have night's cloak to hide me from
their sight; 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.
Dost thou love me?
I know thou wilt say 'Ay,' And I will take
thy word: yet if thou swear'st, Thou mayst
prove false; O gentle Romeo, If thou
dost love, pronounce it faithfully: In
truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, And
therefore thou mayst think my 'havior
light: But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove
more true Than those that have more
cunning to be strange.
Do not impute this yielding to light
love, Which the dark night hath
so discovered.
Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear
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, And
I'll believe thee.
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 to-night?
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.
I hear some noise within; dear love,
adieu!
Juliet.
Anon, good nurse!
Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay but a little, I will come again.
O blessed, blessed night!
I am afeard.
Being in night, all this is but a dream,
Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.
Three words, dear Romeo, and
good night indeed.
If that thy bent of love be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word
to-morrow, By one that I'll procure to
come to thee, Where and what time thou
wilt perform the rite; And all my
fortunes at thy foot I'll lay And follow
thee my lord throughout the world.
So thrive my soul--
A thousand times good night!
A thousand times the worse, to want
thy light
Hist! Romeo, hist!
O, for a falconer's voice, To lure this
tassel-gentle back again!
Romeo!
My dear?
Romeo!
My dear?
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,
And I'll still stay, to have thee
still forget,
'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, And 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 kill
thee with much cherishing.
Good night, good night!
parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall
say good night till it be morrow.
Goodnight.
The grey-eyed morn smiles on the
frowning night, Chequering 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 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,
O, mickle is the powerful grace that
lies In herbs, plants, stones, and
their true qualities:
Within the infant rind of this sweet flower
Within the infant rind of this...
Within the infant rind of this sweet
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.
Good morrow, father.
Benedicite!
No. no, no.
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-roused by
some distemperature;
Or if not so, then here I hit it right,
Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.
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?
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.
Be plain, good son, and homely in
thy drift;
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:
but this I pray, That thou consent to marry
us to-day.
Holy Saint Francis, what a
change is here!
Is Rosaline, whom 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!
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 not; she whom I love
now Doth grace for grace and love for
love allow; The other did not so.
In one respect I'll thy assistant
be; For this alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your households' rancour
to pure love.
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.
love's heralds should be thoughts, Which
ten times faster glide than the
sun's beams,
O God, she comes!
O, she comes!
O honey nurse, what news?
Hast thou met with him?
I am a-weary, give me leave awhile: Fie,
how my bones ache!
what a jaunt have I had!
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?
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?
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; Henceforward
do your messages yourself.
Oh. Here's such a coil!
come, what says Romeo?
Have you got leave to go to
church to-morrow?
I have.
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;
Two such opposed foes encamp them still In
man as well as herbs, grace and rude will
And where the worser is predominant
It is she.
And where the worser
is predominant,
Let's go father.
And where the worser is
predominant, Full soon the canker death
eats up that plant.
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
So smile the heavens upon this holy act,
That after hours with sorrow chide us not!
Do thou but close our hands with
holy words, Then love-devouring death
do what he dare;
(Speaking in Latin)
Amen!
Amen.
Thank you sir.
oh, gold, come quick, look.
Romeo, the hate 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;
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, Till thou shalt know the reason
of my love: And so, good Capulet,--which
name I tender As dearly as my own,
--be satisfied.
O calm, dishonourable,
vile submission!
Alla stoccata carries it away.
Tybalt, you rat-catcher,
will you walk?
What wouldst thou have with me?
Good king of cats,
Mercutio!
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
pitcher 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
Hold, Tybalt! good Mercutio!
Good Mercutio!
Why the devil came you between us?
I was hurt under your arm.
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 to-morrow,
and you shall find me a grave man.
I am peppered, I warrant,
for this world.
A plague on both your houses!
O Romeo, Romeo,
brave Mercutio's dead!
Away to heaven, respective lenity,
And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now!
Now Tybalt, take the villain back again,
That late thou gavest me; for Mercutio's
soul Is but a little way above our heads,
Staying for thine to keep him company:
Either thou, or I, or both,
must go with him.
Thou, wretched boy,
that didst consort him here,
Shalt with him hence.
Romeo, away, be gone!
The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.
Stand not amazed: the prince will doom thee
death, If thou art taken: hence, away,
be gone!
O, I am fortune's fool.
Where are the vile beginners of
this fray?
I can discover all
Tybalt, my cousin!
O my brother's child!
For blood of ours,
shed blood of Montague.
Oh bloody fill of my dear kin.
Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.
Can heaven be so envious?
Romeo can, Though heaven cannot:
O Romeo, Romeo!
Who ever would have thought it?
Romeo!
Can heaven be so envious?
Romeo can
Oh God!
did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood?
It did, it did; alas the day, it did!
O serpent heart,
hid with a flowering face!
Despised substance of divinest show!
Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st,
A damned saint, an honourable villain!
O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell,
When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend
In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?
There's no trust, No faith, no honesty
in men; all perjured, All forsworn, all
naught, all dissemblers.
Shame come to Romeo!
Will you speak well of him that
kill'd your cousin?
Shall I speak ill of him that is
my husband?
Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall
smooth thy name, When I,
thy three-hours wife, have mangled it?
But, wherefore, villain, didst thou
kill my cousin?
Romeo that spoke him fair, bade him
bethink How nice the quarrel was, and
urged withal Your high displeasure: all
this uttered With gentle breath, calm
look, knees humbly bow'd, 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!
friends, part!'
and, swifter than his tongue, His agile arm
beats down their fatal points, And
'twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm
An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the
life Of stout Mercutio,
He is a kinsman to the Montague;
Affection makes him false; he speaks not
true: Some twenty of them fought in this
black strife, And all those twenty could
but kill one life.
I beg for justice, which thou, prince,
must give; Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must
not live.
Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio; Who
then 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.
Mercy but murders, pardoning those
that kill.
I bring thee tidings of the
prince's doom.
A gentler judgment vanish'd from his
lips, Not body's death, but body's
banishment.
Banishment!
Ha, 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, torture, hell itself.
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: he is
banished: Hadst thou no poison mix'd, no
sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of
death, though ne'er so mean,
But 'banished' to kill me?
--'banished'?
Hear me but speak a word.
Thou canst not speak of that thou
dost not feel:
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,
An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,
Doting like me and like me banished,
Then mightst thou speak,
Juliet's nurse.
Shh, shhh, shh.
Leave us.
I come from Lady Juliet.
Welcome, then.
O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar,
Where is my lady's lord, where's Romeo?
There on the ground, with his own
tears made drunk.
O, he is even in my mistress' case,
Just in her case
Spakest thou of Juliet?
how is it with her?
Doth she not think me an old murderer, Now
I have stain'd the childhood of our joy
With blood removed but little from
her own?
Where is she?
and how doth she?
and what says My conceal'd lady to our
cancell'd love?
O, she says nothing, sir, but
weeps and weeps; And now falls on her bed;
and then starts up, And Tybalt calls; and
then on Romeo cries, And then down
falls again.
Stand up, stand up; stand, and you be a
man: For Juliet's sake, for her sake,
rise and stand; Why should you fall into
so deep an O?
Art thou a man?
thy form cries out thou art: Thy tears
are womanish;
Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed,
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 went'st forth in lamentation.
Make haste.
Balthasar.
Thank you my lord.
Romeo!
She's there.
Back, foolish tears, back to your
native spring; Your tributary drops
belong to woe, Which you, mistaking,
offer up to joy.
My husband lives, that Tybalt would
have slain; And Tybalt's dead, that
would have slain my husband: All this is
comfort; wherefore weep I then?
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,
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 day-light, I know it,
I: Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not
to be gone.
Let me stay here, let me be ta'en and die;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say yon grey is not the morning's
eye, 'Tis but the pale reflex of
Cynthia's brow; Nor that is not the lark,
whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven so
high above our heads: I have more care to
stay than will to go: Come, death,
and welcome!
Juliet wills it so.
How is't, my soul?
let'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.
O, now be gone; more light and
light it grows.
More light and light, more dark
and dark it grows
Madam!
Nurse?
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.
I must hear from thee every day in the
hour, For in a minute there are many days:
I will omit no opportunity
O think'st thou we shall ever
meet again?
I doubt it not; and all these woes
shall serve For sweet discourses in our
time to come.
O God, I have an ill-divining soul!
thou look'st pale.'
And trust me, love, in my eye so
do you: Dry sorrow drinks our blood.
Adieu, adieu!
It is late, my lord.
Things have fall'n 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.
These times of woe afford no time to woo
But, soft!
what day is this?
Monday, my lord,
Monday!
Well, Wednesday is too soon, O' Thursday
let it be: o' Thursday, tell her,
She shall be married to this noble earl.
Will you be ready?
do you like this haste?
We'll keep no great ado,--a friend or
two; For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so
late, It may be thought we held him
carelessly, Being our kinsman, if we revel
much: Therefore we'll have some half a
dozen friends, And there an end.
But what say you to Thursday?
My lord, I would that Thursday
were to-morrow.
Senior Paris.
I think she will be ruled In all respects
by me; nay, more, I doubt it not.
Why, how now, Juliet!
Madam, I am not well.
Evermore weeping for
your cousin's death?
some grief shows much of love; But much of
grief shows still some want of wit.
Yet let me weep for such a
feeling loss.
Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much
for his death, As that the villain
lives which slaughter'd 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.
O, how my heart abhors To hear him
named, and cannot come to him.
To wreak the love I bore my cousin,
Tybolt, Upon his body that slaughter'd him!
We will have vengeance for it,
fear thou not: Then weep no more.
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 expect'st not nor
I look'd not for.
Madam, in happy time,
what day is that?
Marry, my child, early next Thursday
morn, The gallant, rich and noble
gentleman, The County Paris, at Saint
Peter's Church, Shall happily make thee
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.
Tell him so yourself,
And see how he will
take it at your hands.
Do as you will.
For it have done well.
How now, wife!
Have you not told 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 blest, 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, chop-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 'gainst Thursday next, To go
with Paris to Saint Peter's Church, Or I
will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
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 o'
Thursday, Or never after look me in the
face: Speak not, reply not, do not
answer me; My fingers itch.
Wife, we scarce thought us 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, Good prudence;
smatter with your gossips, go.
I speak no treason.
O, God ye god-den.
May not one speak?
You are too hot
God's bread!
it makes me mad: Day, night, late, early,
at home, abroud.
Alone, in company, waking and sleeping.
still my care hath been To have her
match'd: and having now provided A
gentleman of princely parentage, Of fair
demesnes, rich, and nobly train'd,
Stuff'd, as they say, with honourable
parts, Proportion'd as one's thought
would wish a man; And then to have a
wretched puling fool, A whining mammet, in
her fortune's tender, To answer 'I'll not
wed; I cannot love, I am too young; I pray
you, pardon me.'
But, as you will not wed, I'll pardon you:
Look to't, think on't, I do not use
to jest.
Thursday is near; lay hand on heart,
advise:
O, 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:
O God!
--O nurse, how shall this be prevented?
My husband is on earth, my faith
in heaven;
Alack, alack, that heaven should
practise stratagems Upon so soft a
subject as myself!
What say'st thou?
hast thou not a word of joy?
Some comfort, nurse.
Faith, here it is.
Romeo is banish'd; and all the world to
nothing, That he dares ne'er come back
to challenge you; Or, if he do, it needs
must be by stealth.
Then, since the case so stands as now it
doth, I think it best you married with
the county.
Speakest thou from thy heart?
And from my soul too;
O, 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:
Well, thou hast comforted me
marvellous much.
Good father pardon, I beseech you!
Henceforward I am ever ruled by you.
But now let me go, having displeased
you, to Laurence' cell, To make
confession and to be absolved.
This is wisely done.
Where is Friar Laurence?
There.
(Speaking in Latin)
O shut the door!
and when thou hast done so, Come weep
with me; past hope, past cure, past help!
(Speaking in Latin)
God join'd my heart and Romeo's,
thou our hands; And ere this hand, by
thee to Romeo seal'd, Shall be the label to
another deed, Or my true heart with
treacherous revolt Turn to another, this
shall slay them both:
I do spy a kind of hope, Which craves as
desperate an execution.
As that is desperate which we
would prevent.
If, rather than to marry County Paris,
Thou hast the strength of will
to slay thyself,
O, bid me leap, rather than marry
Paris, From off the battlements of yonder
tower; Or walk in thievish ways; or
bid me lurk Where serpents are; chain
me with roaring bears; Or shut me
nightly in a charnel-house,
Hold, then;
To-morrow night look that thou lie alone;
Let not thy nurse lie 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 humour, for no pulse
Shall keep his native progress, but
surcease: No warmth, no breath, shall
testify thou livest;
Each part, deprived of supple government,
Shall, stiff and stark and cold,
appear like death: And in this borrow'd
likeness of shrunk death Thou shalt
continue two and forty hours,
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
uncover'd on the bier Thou shalt be borne
to that same ancient vault Where all the
kindred of the Capulets lie.
Things that, to hear them told, have
made me tremble; And I will do it without
fear or doubt, To live an unstain'd
wife to my sweet love.
In the mean time, against thou shalt
awake, Shall Romeo by my letter
know our drift,
Then I will watch thou waking, and
secretely hither to bring the to this
cell until the chapter day.
Which we in Mantua each year do hold
at Easter time.
Wtih all the friars confused I'll have
its wearing, I'll bear the hense,
to Romeo.
But tell me, wilt thou not fear thy
newly entombed cousin Tybalt?
Give me, give me!
O, tell not me of fear!
Love give me strength!
and strength shall help afford.
Farewell, dear father!
See where she comes from shrift
with merry look.
Come.
How now, my headstrong!
where have you been gadding?
Where I have learn'd me to
repent the sin of disobedient
opposition To you and your behests, and am
enjoin'd By holy Laurence to fall
prostrate here, And beg your pardon:
Why, I am glad on't; this is well:
stand up: Stand up.
Now, afore God!
this reverend holy friar, Our whole city
is much bound to him.
To Mantua?
(Speaking in Latin)
Hello there,
this way to Mantua?
Yes father.
There.
Come.
The wedding dress.
Is it not beautiful?
Hie, indeed.
Poor soul, thy face is much abused
with tears.
The tears have got small victory by
that; For it was bad enough before
their spite.
Thou wrong'st it, more than tears, with
that report.
That is no slander, sir,
which is a truth;
Hie, father.
This will help you father.
Holy father, come quickly.
The man's dying.
The man's dyimg and wiches to confess.
Hold my brother's donkey.
OOH, ml letter.
Come, come
What is it my good man?
Five days he lies in bed, with a
strange sickness.
His body is racked with pain.
I fear he dies!
He wants a ftaher confessor for
his sins.
But will not have a doctor for ail.
He fears death, bnut he fears the
doctor more.
Charge will the soul he may unburden
to one who also knows of medicine
and be it so.
For body ailments often mirrows a
sickness of the soul.
But this is plaque!
Water, water.
Water.
Hold, hold the door.
My letter, my letter, open up here.
My letter for Romeo!
Nay, nay!
I pray thee, leave me to my self
to-night, For I have need of many orisons
To move the heavens to smile upon my
state, Which, well thou know'st, is
cross, and full of sin.
What, are you busy, ho?
need you my help?
No, madam; we have cull'd such
necessaries As are behoveful for our
state to-morrow: 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:
My dismal scene I needs must act alone
What if this mixture do not work at all?
Shall I be married then
to-morrow morning?
What if it be a poison, which the
friar Subtly hath minister'd to have me
dead, Lest in this marriage he should be
dishonour'd, Because he married me before
to Romeo?
How if, when I am laid into the tomb,
I wake before the time the holy
friar come to redeem me?
Shall I not, then, be stifled in the vault,
To whose foul mouth no healthsome air
breathes in,
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; O, look!
methinks I see my cousin's ghost
Seeking out Romeo, stay, Tybalt, stay!
Romeo, I come!
this do I drink to thee.
Hold, take these keys, and fetch more
spices, nurse.
They call for dates and quinces
in the pastry.
What, ho!
What, nurse, I say!
Go waken Juliet, go and trim her up;
Mistress!
why, mistress!
Juliet!
fast, I warrant her, she: Why, lamb!
why, lady! fie,
you slug-a-bed!
What, not a word
She's dead, She's dead, She's dead!
If I may trust the flattering truth of
sleep, My dreams presage some joyful
news at hand: My bosom's lord sits
lightly on his throne; And all this
day an unaccustom'd spirit Lifts me above
the ground with cheerful thoughts.
I dreamt my lady came and found me dead--
Strange dream, that gives a dead man
leave to think!
-- And breathed such life with kisses in
my lips, That I revived, and was
an emperor.
Ah me!
how sweet is love itself possess'd,
When but love's shadows are so
rich in joy!
Welcome Balthasar.
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:
O, pardon me for bringing these ill
news, Since you did leave it for my
office, sir.
Ill news I sense?
Her body sleeps in Capel's monument, And
her immortal part with angels lips.
I saw this and presently took post
to tell it you:
I do beseech you, sir, have patience:
Your looks are pale and wild,
and do import Some misadventure.
Tush, thou art deceived:
Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?
No, my good lord.
No matter: get thee gone,
then I defy you, stars!
My lord.
No, no my good lord!
Well, Juliet, I will lie with
thee to-night.
Friar Laurence?
But he is morning at a funeral.
where?
At the main church.
Death lies on her like an untimely
frost Upon the sweetest flower of
all the field.
O lamentable day!
But one, poor one, one poor and loving
child, But one thing to rejoice and solace
in, And cruel death hath catch'd it from
my sight!
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:
Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him;
The heavens do lour upon you for some
ill; Move them no more by crossing
their high will.
Nurse.
Holy Franciscan friar!
brother, ho!
Welcome from Mantua:
what says Romeo?
I could not find him.
The searchers of the town, suspecting
that I was in a house where the infectious
pestilence did reign, Seal'd up the doors,
and would not let us forth; So that my
speed to Mantua there was stay'd.
Who bare my letter, then,
to Romeo?
I could not send it,--here it is
again,-- Nor get a messenger to bring it
thee, So fearful were they of infection.
Unhappy fortune.
By my brotherhood, The letter was not
nice but full of charge of dear
import, and the neglecting it may
do much danger.
Friar John, go hence; Get me an iron crow,
and bring it straight unto my cell.
Stop thy unhallow'd toil,
vile Montague!
Can vengeance be pursued further
than death?
Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee:
Obey, and go with me; for thou must die.
I must indeed; and therefore
came I hither.
Good gentle youth, tempt not a
desperate man;
I beseech thee, youth, Put not
another sin upon my head, By urging me
to fury: O, be gone!
Stay not, be gone; live, and hereafter
say, A madman's mercy bade thee run away.
I do defy thy conjurations,
And apprehend thee for a felon here.
If thou be merciful,
Open the tomb,
lay me with Juliet.
In faith, I will.
What said my man, when my betossed soul
Did not attend him
I think he told me Paris should have
married Juliet: Said he not so?
or did I dream it so?
Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,
To think it was so?
O, give me thy hand, One writ with me
in sour misfortune's book!
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave;
How oft when men are at the point of death
Have they been merry!
which their keepers call A lightning
before death: O, how may I Call
this a lightning?
O my love!
my wife!
Death, that hath suck'd the honey of
thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon
thy beauty:
Thou art not conquer'd; 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?
O, what more favour can I do to thee,
Than with that hand that cut thy youth in
twain To sunder his that was thine enemy?
Forgive me, cousin!
Ah, dear Juliet, Why art thou yet so fair?
Shall I believe That unsubstantial death
is amorous, And that the lean abhorred
monster keeps Thee here in dark to be
his paramour?
For fear of that, I still will stay with
thee; And never from this palace of dim
night depart again:
here, here will I remain
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh.
Eyes,
look your last!
Arms,
take your last embrace!
and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal
with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to
engrossing death!
Come, bitter conduct, come,
unsavoury guide!
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
the dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!
Oh.
Romeo,
Romeo!
ROMEO!
Romeo
O, pale
O comfortable friar!
where is my lord?
I do remember well where I should be,
And there I am.
Where is my Romeo?
Lady, come from that nest Of death,
contagion, and unnatural sleep:
Come, come.
A greater power than we can contradict
hath thwarted our intents.
Come, come away.
Come, go, good Juliet,
I dare no longer stay.
Thy lips are warm.
This is thy sheath;
there rust, and let me die.
O me!
this sight of death is as a bell, that
warns my old age to a sepulchre.
O thou untaught!
what manners is in this?
To press before thy father to a grave?
Capulet!
Montague!
See, what a scourge is laid upon your
hate, That heaven finds means to kill
your joys with love.
O brother Montague,
give me thy hand.
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 pardon'd,
and some punished:
For never was a story of more woe than this
of Juliet and her Romeo.