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By'r Lady, thirty years.
What, man! 'tis not so much, 'tis not so much:
'Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,
Come Pentecost as quickly as it will,
Some five-and-twenty years; and then we mask'd.
'Tis more, 'tis more: his son is elder, sir;
His son is thirty.
Will you tell me that?
His son was but a ward two years ago.
What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand
Of yonder knight?
I know not, sir.
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like 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
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.
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.
Why, how now, kinsman! wherefore storm you so?
Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe;
A villain, that is hither come in spite,
To scorn at our solemnity this night.
Young Romeo, is it?
'Tis he, that villain, Romeo.
Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone,
He 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 the 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.
It fits, when such a villain is a guest:
I'll not endure him.
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'll be the man!
Why, uncle, 'tis a shame.
Go to, go to!
You are a saucy boy. Is't so, indeed?--
This trick may chance to scathe you,--I know what:
You must contrary me! marry, 'tis time.--
Well said, my hearts!--You are a princox; go:
Be quiet, or--More light, more light!--For shame!
I'll make you quiet. What!--cheerly, my hearts.
Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting
Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.
I will withdraw: but this intrusion shall,
Now seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall.
[To Juliet.] 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.
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.
Then move not while my prayer's effect I take.
Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg'd.
Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg'd!
Give me my sin again.
You kiss by the book.
Madam, your mother craves a word with you.
What is her mother?
Her mother is the lady of the house.
And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous:
I nurs'd her daughter that you talk'd withal;
I tell you, he that can lay hold of her
Shall have the chinks.
Is she a Capulet?
O dear account! my life is my foe's debt.
Away, be gone; the sport is at the best.
Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest.
Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone;
We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.--
Is it e'en so? why then, I thank you all;
I thank you, honest gentlemen; good-night.--
More torches here!--Come on then, let's to bed.
Ah, sirrah [to 2 Capulet], by my fay, it waxes late;
I'll to my rest.
[Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse.]
Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman?
The son and heir of old Tiberio.
What's he that now is going out of door?
Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio.
What's he that follows there, that would not dance?
I know not.
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!
Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
Prodigious birth of love it is to me,
That I must love a loathed enemy.
What's this? What's this?
A rhyme I learn'd even now
Of one I danc'd withal.
[One calls within, 'Juliet.']
Come, let's away; the strangers all are gone.
Now old desire doth in his deathbed 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.
Now Romeo is belov'd, and loves again,
Alike bewitched by the charm of looks;
But to his foe suppos'd he must complain,
And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks:
Being held a foe, he may not have access
To breathe such vows as lovers us'd to swear;
And she as much in love, her means much less
To meet her new beloved anywhere:
But passion lends them power, time means, to meet,
Tempering extremities with extreme sweet.
Scene I. An open place adjoining Capulet's Garden.
Can I go forward when my heart is here?
Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.
[He climbs the wall and leaps down within it.]
[Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.]
Romeo! my cousin Romeo!
He is wise;
And, on my life, hath stol'n him home to bed.
He ran this way, and leap'd this orchard wall:
Call, good Mercutio.
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 'Ah me!' pronounce but Love and dove;
Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,
One nickname for her purblind son and heir,
Young auburn 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!
An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.
This cannot anger him: 'twould anger him
To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle,
Of some strange nature, letting it there stand
Till she had laid it, and conjur'd it down;
That were some spite: my invocation
Is fair and honest, and, in his mistress' name,
I conjure only but to raise up him.
Come, he hath hid himself among these trees,
To be consorted with the humorous night:
Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.
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 maids call medlars when they laugh alone.--
Romeo, good night.--I'll to my truckle-bed;
This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep:
Come, shall we go?
Go then; for 'tis in vain
To seek him here that means not to be found.
Scene II. Capulet's Garden.
He jests at scars that never felt a wound.--
[Juliet appears above at a window.]
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!--
She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses, I will answer it.--
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.--
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
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 wondering 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.
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.
[Aside.] 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.
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