Thou mayst prove false. At lovers' perjuries,
They say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully;
Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won,
I'll frown and be perverse and say thee nay,-
So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,
And therefore thou mayst think my 'haviour
light;

But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange.

101

I should have been more strange, I must con

fess, But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware, My true love's passion; therefore pardon me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discovered."

105

Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops Jul. O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,

That monthly changes in her circled orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
Rom. What shall I swear by?
Jul.

113

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. Rom.

If my heart's dear loveJul. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,

116

I have no joy of this contract to-night;
It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden,
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to

[SCENE III. Friar Laurence's cell.] Enter FRIAR [LAURENCE], with a basket. Fri. L. The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night,

Chequ❜ring 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; 10
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 plants, herbs, stones, and their true quali-

ties;

15

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

10

Mer. Any man that can write may answer a letter. Ben. Nay, he will answer the letter's master, how he dares, being dared.

Mer. Alas, poor Romeo! he is already dead; stabb'd 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 buttshaft and is he a man to encounter Tybalt? u Ben. Why, what is Tybalt?

Mer. More than prince of cats. O, he's 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: 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 hai!

Ben. The what?

Mer. The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes; these new tuners of accent! "By Jesu, a very good blade! a very tall man! a very good whore!" Why, not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashionmongers, these perdona-mi's, who stand so much on the new form, that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O, their bones, their bones! T

Enter ROMEO.

Ben. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo. Mer. 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 a kitchen-wench, marry, she had a better love to be-rhyme her; Dido a dowdy: Cleopatra a gipsy; Helen and [ Hero hildings and harlots; Thisbe, a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bonjour! There's a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.

Rom. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?

50

Mer. The slip, sir, the slip; can you not conceive?

Rom. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business

[Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio. Nurse. I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this, that was so full of his ropery · ?

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

mates.

157

Nurse. An 'a speak anything 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 skainsAnd thou must stand by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure? 184 Peter. I saw no man use you at his pleasure; if I had, my weapon should quickly have been out. I warrant you, I dare draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side.

169

Nurse. Now, afore God, I am so vex'd, that every part about me quivers. Scurvy knave! Pray you, sir, a word: and as I told you, my young lady bid me inquire you out; what she bid me say, I will keep to myself. But first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her into a fool's paradise, as they say, it were a very [175 gross kind of behaviour, as they say; for the gentlewoman is young, and, therefore, if you should deal double with her, truly it were an ill thing to be off'red to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing.

181

Nurse. Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest lady-Lord, Lord! when 't was a little prating thing, O, there is a nobleman in town, one Paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lief see a toad, a very toad, [215 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?

220

Rom. Ay, nurse; what of that? Both with

an R.

Nurse. 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.

Rom. Commend me to thy lady.

227

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

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 a-weary, give me leave a while. Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunce have I had!

Jul. 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 a while?

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 he; 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 talk'd 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 din'd at home?

46

Jul. 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 jauncing up and down!
Jul. I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not

well.