25

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 dove-house wall;
My lord and you were then at Mantua;
Nay, I do bear a brain; - but, as I said,
When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple
Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,
To see it tetchy and fall out wi' the dug!
Shake, quoth the dove-house; 't was no need,
I trow,
To bid me trudge.

31

Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;

45

Wilt thou not, Jule?" and, by my holidame,
The pretty wretch left crying and said, "Ay."
To see, now, how a jest shall come about!
I warrant, an I should live a thousand years,
I never should forget it. "Wilt thou not,
Jule?" quoth he;

And, pretty fool, it stinted and said, “Ay." La. Cap. Enough of this; I pray thee, hold thy peace.

Nurse. Yes, madam; yet I cannot choose but laugh,

To think it should leave crying and say, "Ay."
And yet, I warrant, it had upon it brow
A bump as big as a young cockerel's stone;
A perilous knock; and it cried bitterly.
"Yea," quoth my husband, "fall'st upon thy

face?

Enter ROMEO, MERCUTIO, BENVOLIO, with five or six other Maskers, Torch-bearers. Rom. What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?

Or shall we on without apology?

5

Ben. The date is out of such prolixity. We'll have no Cupid hoodwink'd with a scarf, Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath, Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper; [Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke After the prompter, for our entrance ;] But let them measure us by what they will, We'll measure them a measure and be gone. 10 Rom. Give me a torch. I am not for this ambling;

Being but heavy, I will bear the light.

Mer. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.

Rom. Not I, believe me. You have dancing shoes

15

With nimble soles; I have a soul of lead
So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
Mer. You are a lover; borrow Cupid's wings,
And soar with them above a common bound.

Rom. I am too sore enpierced with his shaft
To soar with his light feathers, and so bound 20
I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe.
Under love's heavy burden do I sink.

Mer. And, to sink in it, should you burden love;

Too great oppression for a tender thing.

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

20

Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels,
For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase:
I'll be a candle-holder, and look_on.
The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done.
Mer. Tut, dun 's the mouse, the constable's
own word.

If thou art dun, we'll draw thee from the mire

Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stickest Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho! Rom. Nay, that's not so.

Mer. I mean, sir, in delay We waste our lights in vain, light lights by day.

45

with you.

She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Over men's noses as they lie asleep;

Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs,
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers,
Her traces of the smallest spider web,
Her collars of the moonshine's watery beams,
Her whip of cricket's bone, the lash of film,
Her waggoner a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid;
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops night by night to
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream

of love;

On courtiers' knees, that dream on curtsies 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,

80

Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail
Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep,
Then he dreams of another benefice.
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon 85
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
That plats the manes of horses in the night,
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs, 20
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

Will now deny to dance? She that makes dainty,

She, I'll swear, hath corns. Am I come near ye now?

Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day
That I have worn a visor and could tell
A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear,
Such as would please; 't is gone, 't is gone,

gone.

25

't is

You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play. [Music plays, and they dance. A hall, a hall! give room! and foot it, girls. More light, you knaves; and turn the tables

Rom. O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!

It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
As a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, 50
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.

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.

55

Tyb. This, by his voice, should be a Montague.

Fetch me my rapier, boy. What dares the slave
Come hither, cover'd with an antic face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
Now, by the stock and honour of my kin,
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.
Cap. Why, how now, kinsman! wherefore
storm you so?

Tyb. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe, A villain that is hither come in spite To scorn at our solemnity this night. Cap. Young Romeo is it?

65

70

Tyb. 'Tis he, that villain Romeo. Cap. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone, 'A bears him like a portly gentleman; And, to say truth, Verona brags of him To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth. I would not for the wealth of all this town Here in my house do him disparagement; Therefore be patient, take no note of him; It is my will, the which if thou respect, Show a fair presence and put off these frowns, An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.

Tyb. It fits, when such a villain is a guest. I'll not endure him.

76

Cap.
He shall be endur'd.
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 cock-a-hoop! You 'Il be the man!
Tyb. Why, uncle, 't is a shame.
Cap.

80

85

Go to, go to;
You are a saucy boy. Is 't so, indeed?
This trick may chance to scath you; I know
what.

You must contrary me! Marry, 't is time.
Well said, my hearts! - You are a princox; go;
Be quiet, or - More light, more light!-for
What, cheerly, my

shame!

I'll make you quiet.

hearts!

90

Jul. Go, ask his name. - If he be married, My grave is like to be my wedding-bed. Nurse. His name is Romeo, and a Montague; The only son of your great enemy.

Jul. 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. Nurse. What's this? what's this? Jul. A rhyme I learn'd even now

Of one I danc'd withal.

Nurse.

[One calls within, "Juliet." Anon, anon!

Come, let's away; the strangers all are gone.

[АСТ І]
[PROLOGUE]

[Enter] CHORUS.

145

[Exeunt.

[Chor.] Now old Desire doth in his death-bed lie, And young Affection gapes to be his heir; That fair for which love groan'd for and would

die,

With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair.

Call, good Mercutio.
Mer.
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;
Cry but Ay me!" pronounce but love"
and "dove";

66

10

Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,
One nick-name for her purblind son and heir,
Young Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim,
When King Cophetua lov'd the beggar-maid!
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 demesnes that there adjacent lie,
That in thy likeness thou appear to us!

16

20

Ben. An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.

Mer. This cannot anger him; 't would anger him

To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle,

Of some strange nature, letting it there stand 25
Till she had laid it and conjur'd it down.
That were some spite; my invocation
Is fair and honest; in his mistress' name
I conjure only but to raise up him.

Ben. Come, he hath hid himself among these trees,

To be consorted with the humorous night.
Blind is his love and best befits the dark.

30

Mer. 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
As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone.
O, Romeo, that she were, O, that she were
An open et cetera, thou a poperin pear!
Romeo, good-night; I'll to my truckle-bed;
This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.
Come, shall we go?
Ben.

40

Go, then; for 't is in vain To seek him here that means not to be found. [Exeunt [Ben. and Mer.].

[SCENE II. Capulet's orchard.

ROMEO advances from the wall.]

Rom. He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

Juliet appears above at her window. ppears

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief

That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.

Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!

O, that she knew she were!

10

Jul. Rom.

Ay me!

26

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 wond'ring 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.
Jul. 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.

30

35

Rom. [Aside.] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

Jul. T is but thy name that is my enemy; Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, 40 Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!