Part 2 out of 3
but not to the purpose,--
Signior Romeo, bon jour! there's a French salutation to your
French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.
Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?
The slip, sir, the slip; can you not conceive?
Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great; and in such a
case as mine a man may strain courtesy.
That's as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a
man to bow in the hams.
Meaning, to court'sy.
Thou hast most kindly hit it.
A most courteous exposition.
Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.
Pink for flower.
Why, then is my pump well-flowered.
Well said: follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out
thy pump;that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may
remain, after the wearing, sole singular.
O single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness!
Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint.
Swits and spurs, swits and spurs; or I'll cry a match.
Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I have done; for
thou hast more of the wild-goose in one of thy wits than, I am
sure, I have in my whole five: was I with you there for the
Thou wast never with me for anything when thou wast not
there for the goose.
I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.
Nay, good goose, bite not.
Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp
And is it not, then, well served in to a sweet goose?
O, here's a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch
narrow to an ell broad!
I stretch it out for that word broad: which added to the
goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose.
Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? now art
thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; not art thou what thou art, by
art as well as by nature: for this drivelling love is like a
great natural, that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble
in a hole.
Stop there, stop there.
Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.
Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large.
O, thou art deceived; I would have made it short: for I was
come to the whole depth of my tale; and meant indeed to occupy
the argument no longer.
Here's goodly gear!
[Enter Nurse and Peter.]
A sail, a sail, a sail!
Two, two; a shirt and a smock.
My fan, Peter.
Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan's the fairer face.
God ye good morrow, gentlemen.
God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman.
Is it good-den?
'Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is
now upon the prick of noon.
Out upon you! what a man are you!
One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar.
By my troth, it is well said;--for himself to mar, quoth
'a?--Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the young
I can tell you: but young Romeo will be older when you have
found him than he was when you sought him: I am the youngest of
that name, for fault of a worse.
You say well.
Yea, is the worst well? very well took, i' faith; wisely,
If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you.
She will indite him to some supper.
A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho!
What hast thou found?
No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is
something stale and hoar ere it be spent.
An old hare hoar,
And an old hare hoar,
Is very good meat in Lent;
But a hare that is hoar
Is too much for a score
When it hoars ere it be spent.
Romeo, will you come to your father's? we'll to dinner thither.
I will follow you.
Farewell, ancient lady; farewell,--
[singing] lady, lady, lady.
[Exeunt Mercutio, and Benvolio.]
Marry, farewell!--I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was
this that was so full of his ropery?
A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk; and
will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month.
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 skains-mates.--And thou must stand
by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure!
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.
Now, afore God, I am so vexed that every part about me
quivers. Scurvy knave!--Pray you, sir, a word: and, as I told
you, my young lady bid me enquire you out; what she bade 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 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 offered to any gentlewoman, and very weak
Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto
Good heart, and i' faith I will tell her as much: Lord,
Lord, she will be a joyful woman.
What wilt thou tell her, nurse? thou dost not mark me.
I will tell her, sir,--that you do protest: which, as I
take it, is a gentlemanlike offer.
Bid her devise some means to come to shrift
And there she shall at Friar Lawrence' cell
Be shriv'd and married. Here is for thy pains.
No, truly, sir; not a penny.
Go to; I say you shall.
This afternoon, sir? well, she shall be there.
And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey-wall:
Within this hour my man shall be with thee,
And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair;
Which to the high top-gallant of my joy
Must be my convoy in the secret night.
Farewell; be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains:
Farewell; commend me to thy mistress.
Now God in heaven bless thee!--Hark you, sir.
What say'st thou, my dear nurse?
Is your man secret? Did you ne'er hear say,
Two may keep counsel, putting one away?
I warrant thee, my man's as true as steel.
Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest lady.--Lord, Lord!
when 'twas a little prating thing,--O, there's 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, 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
Ay, nurse; what of that? both with an R.
Ah, mocker! that's the dog's name. R is for the dog: 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.
Commend me to thy lady.
Ay, a thousand times. [Exit Romeo.]--Peter!
Peter, take my fan, and go before.
Scene V. Capulet's Garden.
The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse;
In half an hour she promis'd to return.
Perchance she cannot meet him: that's not so.--
O, she is lame! love's heralds should be thoughts,
Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams,
Driving back shadows over lowering hills:
Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw love,
And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.
Now is the sun upon the highmost hill
Of this day's journey; and from nine till twelve
Is three long hours,--yet she is not come.
Had she affections and warm youthful blood,
She'd be as swift in motion as a ball;
My words would bandy her to my sweet love,
And his to me:
But old folks, many feign as they were dead;
Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.--
O God, she comes!
[Enter Nurse and Peter].
O honey nurse, what news?
Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.
Peter, stay at the gate.
Now, good sweet nurse,--O Lord, why look'st thou sad?
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.
I am aweary, give me leave awhile;--
Fie, how my bones ache! what a jaunt have I had!
I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news:
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?
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?
Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to
choose a man: Romeo! no, not he; rhough 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 talked 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 dined at home?
No, no: but all this did I know before.
What says he of our marriage? what of that?
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!
I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.
Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love?
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;
Is this the poultice for my aching bones?
Henceforward,do your messages yourself.
Here's such a coil!--come, what says Romeo?
Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day?
Then hie you hence to Friar Lawrence' cell;
There stays a husband to make you a wife:
Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks,
They'll be in scarlet straight at any news.
Hie you to church; I must another way,
To fetch a ladder, by the which your love
Must climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark:
I am the drudge, and toil in your delight;
But you shall bear the burden soon at night.
Go; I'll to dinner; hie you to the cell.
Hie to high fortune!--honest nurse, farewell.
Scene VI. Friar Lawrence's Cell.
[Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.]
So smile the heavens upon this holy act
That after-hours with sorrow chide us not!
Amen, amen! but come what sorrow can,
It cannot countervail the exchange of joy
That one short minute gives me in her sight:
Do thou but close our hands with holy words,
Then love-devouring death do what he dare,--
It is enough I may but call her mine.
These violent delights have violent ends,
And in their triumph die; like fire and powder,
Which, as they kiss, consume: the sweetest honey
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness,
And in the taste confounds the appetite:
Therefore love moderately: long love doth so;
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
Here comes the lady:--O, so light a foot
Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint:
A lover may bestride the gossamer
That idles in the wanton summer air
And yet not fall; so light is vanity.
Good-even to my ghostly confessor.
Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.
As much to him, else is his thanks too much.
Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy
Be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more
To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath
This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue
Unfold the imagin'd happiness that both
Receive in either by this dear encounter.
Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,
Brags of his substance, not of ornament:
They are but beggars that can count their worth;
But my true love is grown to such excess,
I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.
Come, come with me, and we will make short work;
For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone
Till holy church incorporate two in one.
Scene I. A public Place.
[Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page, and Servants.]
I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire:
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad,
And, if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl;
For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.
Thou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the
confines of a tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says
'God send me no need of thee!' and by the operation of the second
cup draws him on the drawer, when indeed there is no need.
Am I like such a fellow?
Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in
Italy; and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be
And what to?
Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for
one would kill the other. Thou! why, thou wilt quarrel with a
man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou
hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no
other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes;--what eye but such
an eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of
quarrels as an egg is full of meat; and yet thy head hath been
beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrelled
with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened
thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall
out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with
another for tying his new shoes with an old riband? and yet thou
wilt tutor me from quarrelling!
An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy
the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter.
The fee simple! O simple!
By my head, here come the Capulets.
By my heel, I care not.
[Enter Tybalt and others.]
Follow me close, for I will speak to them.--Gentlemen, good-den:
a word with one of you.
And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make
it a word and a blow.
You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give
Could you not take some occasion without giving?
Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo,--
Consort! what, dost thou make us minstrels? An thou make
minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords: here's my
fiddlestick; here's that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!
We talk here in the public haunt of men:
Either withdraw unto some private place,
And reason coldly of your grievances,
Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.
Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze;
I will not budge for no man's pleasure, I.
Well, peace be with you, sir.--Here comes my man.
But I'll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery:
Marry, go before to field, he'll be your follower;
Your worship in that sense may call him man.
Romeo, the love 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;
Therefore farewell; I see thou know'st me not.
Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries
That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw.
I do protest I never injur'd 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 mine own,--be satisfied.
O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!
Alla stoccata carries it away. [Draws.]
Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?
What wouldst thou have with me?
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,
dry-beat 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. [Drawing.]
Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.
Come, sir, your passado.
Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.--
Gentlemen, for shame! forbear this outrage!--
Tybalt,--Mercutio,--the prince expressly hath
Forbid this bandying in Verona streets.--
Hold, Tybalt!--good Mercutio!--
[Exeunt Tybalt with his Partizans.]
I am hurt;--
A plague o' both your houses!--I am sped.--
Is he gone, and hath nothing?
What, art thou hurt?
Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, 'tis enough.--
Where is my page?--go, villain, fetch a surgeon.
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 o' both your houses!--Zounds, a dog, a rat, a
mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a rogue, a
villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic!--Why the devil
came you between us? I was hurt under your arm.
I thought all for the best.
Help me into some house, Benvolio,
Or I shall faint.--A plague o' both your houses!
They have made worms' meat of me:
I have it, and soundly too.--Your houses!
[Exit Mercutio and Benvolio.]
This gentleman, the prince's near ally,
My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt
In my behalf; my reputation stain'd
With Tybalt's slander,--Tybalt, that an hour
Hath been my kinsman.--O sweet Juliet,
Thy beauty hath made me effeminate
And in my temper soften'd valour's steel.
O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio's dead!
That gallant spirit hath aspir'd the clouds,
Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.
This day's black fate on more days doth depend;
This but begins the woe others must end.
Here comes the furious Tybalt back again.
Alive in triumph! and Mercutio slain!
Away to heaven respective lenity,
And fire-ey'd 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.
This shall determine that.
[They fight; Tybalt falls.]
Romeo, away, be gone!
The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.--
Stand not amaz'd. The prince will doom thee death
If thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away!
O, I am fortune's fool!
Why dost thou stay?
[Enter Citizens, &c.]
Which way ran he that kill'd Mercutio?
Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he?
There lies that Tybalt.
Up, sir, go with me;
I charge thee in the prince's name obey.
[Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives,
Where are the vile beginners of this fray?
O noble prince. I can discover all
The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl:
There lies the man, slain by young Romeo,
That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.
Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother's child!--
O prince!--O husband!--O, the blood is spill'd
Of my dear kinsman!--Prince, as thou art true,
For blood of ours shed blood of Montague.--
O cousin, cousin!
Benvolio, who began this bloody fray?
Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo's hand did slay;
Romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink
How nice the quarrel was, and urg'd 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,
And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats
Cold death aside, and with the other sends
It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity
Retorts it: 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, and then Tybalt fled:
But by-and-by comes back to Romeo,
Who had but newly entertain'd revenge,
And to't they go like lightning; for, ere I
Could draw to part them was stout Tybalt slain;
And as he fell did Romeo turn and fly.
This is the truth, or let Benvolio die.
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 now 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.
And for that offence
Immediately we do exile him hence:
I have an interest in your hate's proceeding,
My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding;
But I'll amerce you with so strong a fine
That you shall all repent the loss of mine:
I will be deaf to pleading and excuses;
Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses,
Therefore use none: let Romeo hence in haste,
Else, when he is found, that hour is his last.
Bear hence this body, and attend our will:
Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.
Scene II. A Room in Capulet's House.
Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus' lodging; such a waggoner
As Phaeton would whip you to the west
And bring in cloudy night immediately.--
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night!
That rude eyes may wink, and Romeo
Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen.--
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties: or, if love be blind,
It best agrees with night.--Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:
Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night;--come, Romeo;--come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back.--
Come, gentle night;--come, loving, black-brow'd night,
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.--
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess'd it; and, though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes,
And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse,
And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks
But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence.--
[Enter Nurse, with cords.]
Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords
That Romeo bid thee fetch?
Ay, ay, the cords.
[Throws them down.]
Ah me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands?
Ah, well-a-day! he's dead, he's dead, he's dead!
We are undone, lady, we are undone!--
Alack the day!--he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead!
Can heaven be so envious?
Though heaven cannot.--O Romeo, Romeo!--
Who ever would have thought it?--Romeo!
What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?
This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell.
Hath Romeo slain himself? say thou but I,
And that bare vowel I shall poison more
Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice:
I am not I if there be such an I;
Or those eyes shut that make thee answer I.
If he be slain, say I; or if not, no:
Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.
I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,--
God save the mark!--here on his manly breast.
A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;
Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood,
All in gore-blood;--I swounded at the sight.
O, break, my heart!--poor bankrout, break at once!
To prison, eyes; ne'er look on liberty!
Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here;
And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier!
O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had!
O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman!
That ever I should live to see thee dead!
What storm is this that blows so contrary?
Is Romeo slaughter'd, and is Tybalt dead?
My dear-lov'd cousin, and my dearer lord?--
Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom!
For who is living, if those two are gone?
Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished;
Romeo that kill'd him, he is banished.
O 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!
Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?
Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical!
Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb!
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?--
Was ever book containing such vile matter
So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell
In such a gorgeous palace!
There's no trust,
No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd,
All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.--
Ah, where's my man? Give me some aqua vitae.--
These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.
Shame come to Romeo!
Blister'd be thy tongue
For such a wish! he was not born to shame:
Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit;
For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd
Sole monarch of the universal earth.
O, what a beast was I to chide at him!
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?
That villain cousin would have kill'd my husband:
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?
Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death,
That murder'd me: I would forget it fain;
But O, it presses to my memory
Like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds:
'Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished.'
That 'banished,' that one word 'banished,'
Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death
Was woe enough, if it had ended there:
Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship,
And needly will be rank'd with other griefs,--
Why follow'd not, when she said Tybalt's dead,
Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both,
Which modern lamentation might have mov'd?
But with a rear-ward following Tybalt's death,
'Romeo is banished'--to speak that word
Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,
All slain, all dead: 'Romeo is banished,'--
There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,
In that word's death; no words can that woe sound.--
Where is my father and my mother, nurse?
Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corse:
Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.
Wash they his wounds with tears: mine shall be spent,
When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment.
Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil'd,
Both you and I; for Romeo is exil'd:
He made you for a highway to my bed;
But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.
Come, cords; come, nurse; I'll to my wedding-bed;
And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!
Hie to your chamber. I'll find Romeo
To comfort you: I wot well where he is.
Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night:
I'll to him; he is hid at Lawrence' cell.
O, find him! give this ring to my true knight,
And bid him come to take his last farewell.
Scene III. Friar Lawrence's cell.
[Enter Friar Lawrence.]
Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man.
Affliction is enanmour'd of thy parts,
And thou art wedded to calamity.
Father, what news? what is the prince's doom
What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand,
That I yet know not?
Is my dear son with such sour company:
I bring thee tidings of the prince's doom.
What less than doomsday is the prince's doom?
A gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips,--
Not body's death, but body's 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.
Hence-banished is banish'd from the world,
And world's exile is death,--then banished
Is death mis-term'd: calling death banishment,
Thou cutt'st my head off with a golden axe,
And smil'st upon the stroke that murders me.
O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness!
Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind prince,
Taking thy part, hath brush'd aside the law,
And turn'd that black word death to banishment:
This is dear mercy, and thou see'st it not.
'Tis torture, and not mercy: 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.--More validity,
More honourable state, more courtship lives
In carrion flies than Romeo: they may seize
On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand,
And steal immortal blessing from her lips;
Who, even in pure and vestal modesty,
Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin;
But Romeo may not; he is banished,--
This may flies do, when I from this must fly.
And sayest thou yet that exile is not death!
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?
O friar, the damned use that word in hell;
Howlings attend it: how hast thou the heart,
Being a divine, a ghostly confessor,
A sin-absolver, and my friend profess'd,
To mangle me with that word banishment?
Thou fond mad man, hear me speak a little,--
O, thou wilt speak again of banishment.
I'll give thee armour to keep off that word;
Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy,
To comfort thee, though thou art banished.
Yet banished? Hang up philosophy!
Unless philosophy can make a Juliet,
Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom,
It helps not, it prevails not,--talk no more.
O, then I see that madmen have no ears.
How should they, when that wise men have no eyes?
Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.
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, then mightst thou tear thy hair,
And fall upon the ground, as I do now,
Taking the measure of an unmade grave.
Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself.
Not I; unless the breath of heartsick groans,
Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes.
Hark, how they knock!--Who's there?--Romeo, arise;
Thou wilt be taken.--Stay awhile;--Stand up;
Run to my study.--By-and-by!--God's will!
What simpleness is this.--I come, I come!
Who knocks so hard? whence come you? what's your will?
[Within.] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand;
I come from Lady Juliet.
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!
O woeful sympathy!
Even so lies she,
Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering.--
Stand up, stand up; stand, an you be a man:
For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand;
Why should you fall into so deep an O?
Ah sir! ah sir!--Well, death's the end of all.
Spakest thou of Juliet? how is it with her?
Doth not she think me an old murderer,
Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy
With blood remov'd 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.
As if that name,
Shot from the deadly level of a gun,
Did murder her; as that name's cursed hand
Murder'd her kinsman.--O, tell me, friar, tell me,
In what vile part of this anatomy
Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may sack
The hateful mansion.
[Drawing his sword.]
Hold thy desperate hand:
Art thou a man? thy form cries out thou art;
Thy tears are womanish; thy wild acts denote
The unreasonable fury of a beast;
Unseemly woman in a seeming man!
Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both!
Thou hast amaz'd me: by my holy order,
I thought thy disposition better temper'd.
Hast thou slain Tybalt? wilt thou slay thyself?
And slay thy lady, too, that lives in thee,
By doing damned hate upon thyself?
Why rail'st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth?
Since birth and heaven and earth, all three do meet
In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose.
Fie, fie, thou sham'st thy shape, thy love, thy wit;
Which, like a usurer, abound'st in all,
And usest none in that true use indeed
Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit:
Thy noble shape is but a form of wax,
Digressing from the valour of a man;
Thy dear love sworn, but hollow perjury,
Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish;
Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love,
Mis-shapen in the conduct of them both,
Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask,
Is set a-fire by thine own ignorance,
And thou dismember'd with thine own defence.
What, rouse thee, man! thy Juliet is alive,
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead;
There art thou happy: Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou slewest Tybalt; there art thou happy too:
The law, that threaten'd death, becomes thy friend,
And turns it to exile; there art thou happy:
A pack of blessings lights upon thy back;
Happiness courts thee in her best array;
But, like a misbehav'd and sullen wench,
Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love:--
Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.
Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed,
Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her:
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.--
Go before, nurse: commend me to thy lady;
And bid her hasten all the house to bed,
Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto.
Romeo is coming.
O Lord, I could have stay'd here all the night
To hear good counsel: O, what learning is!--
My lord, I'll tell my lady you will come.
Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.
Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir:
Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late.
How well my comfort is reviv'd by this!
Go hence; good night! and here stands all your state:
Either be gone before the watch be set,
Or by the break of day disguis'd from hence.
Sojourn in Mantua; I'll find out your man,
And he shall signify from time to time
Every good hap to you that chances here:
Give me thy hand; 'tis late; farewell; good night.
But that a joy past joy calls out on me,
It were a grief so brief to part with thee:
Scene IV. A Room in Capulet's House.
[Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris.]
Things have fallen out, sir, so unluckily
That we have had no time to move our daughter:
Look you, she lov'd her kinsman Tybalt dearly,
And so did I; well, we were born to die.
'Tis very late; she'll not come down to-night:
I promise you, but for your company,
I would have been a-bed an hour ago.
These times of woe afford no tune to woo.--
Madam, good night: commend me to your daughter.
I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;
To-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness.
Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender
Of my child's love: I think she will be rul'd
In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not.--
Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed;
Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love;
And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next,--
But, soft! what day is this?
Monday, my lord.
Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon,
Thursday let it be;--a 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.
Well, get you gone: o' Thursday be it then.--
Go you to Juliet, ere you go to bed,
Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day.--
Farewell, my lord.--Light to my chamber, ho!--
Afore me, it is so very very late
That we may call it early by and by.--
Scene V. An open Gallery to Juliet's Chamber, overlooking the
[Enter Romeo and Juliet.]
Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
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.
Yond light is not daylight, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer
And light thee on the way to Mantua:
Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone.
Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say yon gray 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.
Some say the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us:
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes;
O, now I would they had chang'd voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day.
O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.
More light and light,--more dark and dark our woes!
Your lady mother is coming to your chamber:
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.
Art thou gone so? my lord, my love, my friend!
I must hear from thee every day i' the hour,
For in a minute there are many days:
O, by this count I shall be much in years
Ere I again behold my Romeo!
I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.
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!
Methinks I see thee, now thou art below,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb:
Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale.
And trust me, love, in my eye so do you:
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu!
O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle:
If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him
That is renown'd for faith? Be fickle, fortune;
For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long
But send him back.
[Within.] Ho, daughter! are you up?
Who is't that calls? is it my lady mother?
Is she not down so late, or up so early?
What unaccustom'd cause procures her hither?
[Enter Lady Capulet.]
Why, how now, Juliet?
Madam, I am not well.
Evermore weeping for your cousin's death?
What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?
An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live;
Therefore have done: 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.
So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend
Which you weep for.
Feeling so the loss,
I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.
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.
Villain and he be many miles asunder.--
God pardon him! I do, with all my heart;
And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.
That is because the traitor murderer lives.
Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands.
Would none but I might venge my cousin's death!
We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not:
Then weep no more. I'll send to one in Mantua,--
Where that same banish'd runagate doth live,--
Shall give him such an unaccustom'd dram
That he shall soon keep Tybalt company:
And then I hope thou wilt be satisfied.
Indeed I never shall be satisfied
With Romeo till I behold him--dead--
Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex'd:
Madam, if you could find out but a man
To bear a poison, I would temper it,
That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof,
Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors
To hear him nam'd,--and cannot come to him,--
To wreak the love I bore my cousin Tybalt
Upon his body that hath slaughter'd him!
Find thou the means, and I'll find such a man.
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, young, and noble gentleman,
The County Paris, at St. Peter's Church,
Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.
Now by Saint Peter's Church, and Peter too,
He shall not make me 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:--these are news indeed!
Here comes your father: tell him so yourself,
And see how he will take it at your hands.
[Enter Capulet and Nurse.]
When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew;
But for the sunset of my brother's son
It rains downright.--
How now! a conduit, girl? what, still in tears?
Evermore showering? In one little body
Thou counterfeit'st a bark, a sea, a wind:
For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,
Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is,
Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs;
Who,--raging with thy tears and they with them,--
Without a sudden calm, will overset
Thy tempest-tossed body.--How now, wife!
Have you deliver'd to 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 bles'd,
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.
Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage!
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 bles'd
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 good-en!
May not one speak?
Peace, you mumbling fool!
Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl,
For here we need it not.
You are too hot.
God's bread! it makes me mad:
Day, night, hour, time, tide, work, play,
Alone, in company, still my care hath been
To have her match'd, and having now provided
A gentleman of noble parentage,
Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd,
Stuff'd, as they say, with honourable parts,
Proportion'd as one's heart 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, an you will not wed, I'll pardon you:
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me:
Look to't, think on't, I do not use to jest.
Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise:
An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend;
An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die i' the streets,
For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee,
Nor what is mine shall never do thee good:
Trust to't, bethink you, I'll not be forsworn.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,
That sees into the bottom of my grief?
O, sweet my mother, cast me not away!
Delay this marriage for a month, a week;
Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word;
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.
O God!--O nurse! how shall this be prevented?
My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven;
How shall that faith return again to earth,
Unless that husband send it me from heaven
By leaving earth?--comfort me, counsel me.--
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 'tis; Romeo
Is banished; 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.
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: or if it did not,
Your first is dead; or 'twere as good he were,
As living here, and you no use of him.
Speakest thou this from thy heart?
And from my soul too;
Or else beshrew them both.
Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.
Go in; and tell my lady I am gone,
Having displeas'd my father, to Lawrence' cell,
To make confession and to be absolv'd.
Marry, I will; and this is wisely done.
Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend!
Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,
Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue
Which she hath prais'd him with above compare
So many thousand times?--Go, counsellor;
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.--
I'll to the friar to know his remedy;
If all else fail, myself have power to die.
Scene I. Friar Lawrence's Cell.
[Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.]
On Thursday, sir? the time is very short.
My father Capulet will have it so;
And I am nothing slow to slack his haste.
You say you do not know the lady's mind:
Uneven is the course; I like it not.
Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death,
And therefore have I little talk'd of love;
For Venus smiles not in a house of tears.
Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous
That she do give her sorrow so much sway;
And, in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,
To stop the inundation of her tears;
Which, too much minded by herself alone,
May be put from her by society:
Now do you know the reason of this haste.
[Aside.] I would I knew not why it should be slow'd.--
Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.
Happily met, my lady and my wife!
That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.
That may be must be, love, on Thursday next.
What must be shall be.
That's a certain text.
Come you to make confession to this father?
To answer that, I should confess to you.
Do not deny to him that you love me.
I will confess to you that I love him.
So will ye, I am sure, that you love me.
If I do so, it will be of more price,
Being spoke behind your back than to your face.
Poor soul, thy face is much abus'd 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;
And what I spake, I spake it to my face.
Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander'd it.
It may be so, for it is not mine own.--
Are you at leisure, holy father, now;
Or shall I come to you at evening mass?
My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.--
My lord, we must entreat the time alone.
God shield I should disturb devotion!--
Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse you:
Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.
O, shut the door! and when thou hast done so,
Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help!
Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief;
It strains me past the compass of my wits:
I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,
On Thursday next be married to this county.
Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this,
Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it:
If, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,
Do thou but call my resolution wise,
And with this knife I'll help it presently.
God join'd my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands;
And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo's seal'd,
Shall be the label to another deed,
Or my true heart with treacherous revolt
Turn to another, this shall slay them both:
Therefore, out of thy long-experienc'd time,
Give me some present counsel; or, behold,
'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife
Shall play the empire; arbitrating that
Which the commission of thy years and art
Could to no issue of true honour bring.
Be not so long to speak; I long to die,
If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy.
Hold, daughter. 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,
Then is it likely thou wilt undertake
A thing like death to chide away this shame,
That cop'st with death himself to scape from it;
And, if thou dar'st, I'll give thee remedy.
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,
O'er-cover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones,
With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls;
Or bid me go into a new-made grave,
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud;
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.
Hold, then; go home, be merry, give consent
To marry Paris: Wednesday is to-morrow;
To-morrow night look that thou lie alone,
Let not thy nurse lie with thee 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;
The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade