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SCENE IJI.--A Room in Capulet's House.
Enter Lady CAPULET, and Nurse.
La. Cap. Nurse, where's my daughter ? call her forth 1) me.
Nurse. Now, by my faith,-at twelve year old,
I bade her come. - -What, lamb! what, lady-bird !
Heaven forbid ! where's this girl ?—what Juliet !
Jul. How now, who calls ?
Madam, I am er What is your will ?
La. Cap. This is the matter :-Nurse, give leave awhile,
We must talk in secret.-Nurse, come back again ;
I have remember'd me, thou shalt hear our counsel.
Thou know'st, my daughter's of a pretty age.
Nurse. 'Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.
La. Cap. She's not fourteen.
I'll lay fourteen of my teeth,
And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,-
She is not fourteen.-How long is it now
To Lammas-tide ?
A fortnight, and odd days.
Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in the year,
Sourcen Come Lammas-eve at night, shall she be eighteen. Heaven mark thee to its grace ! Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nurs’d. An I might live to see thee married once, I have
La. Cap. Marry, that marry is the very theme
I came to talk of :-Tell me, daughter Juliet,
How stands your disposicion to be married ?
Jul. It is an honor that I dream not of.
La. Cap. Well, think of marriage now.
Thus then, in brief ,
The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.
Nurse. A man, young lady! lady, such a man,
As all the world—Why, he's a man of wax,
La. Cap. Verona's summer hath not such a flower.
Nurse. Nay, he's a flower; in faith, a very flower.
La. Cap. What say you ? can you love the gentlemen ?
This night you shall behold him at our feast:
Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love ?
Jul. I'll look to lil.e, if looking liking move:
But no more deep will I endart mine eye,
Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
Enter a Servant. Serv. Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the nurse wanted in the pantry, and every thing in extremity. I must hence to wait; I beseech you, follow straight. La. Cap. We follow thee.—Juliet, the county stays. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.--A Street.
Enter ROMEO, MERCUTIO, BENVOLIO, with Five or Six Maskers
Torch-bearers, and others.
Rom. What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse ?
Or shall we on without apology ?
Ben. The date is out of such prolixity :
We'll have no Cupid hood-wink'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.
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
Rom. Not I, believe me : you have dancing shoes,
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,
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, wo boist’rous.
Mer. If love be rough with you, be rough with love; Give me a case to put my visage in:
[Putting on a mask A visor for a visor !—what care I, What curious eye doth quote deformities? Here are the beetle-brows, shall blush for me.
Ben. Come, knock, and enter; and no sooner in,
But every mar. betale him to his legs.
Rom. A torch for me: let wantons, light of heart,
Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels;
For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase,-
['ll be a candle-holder, and look on.
But 'tis no wil to all
Why, may one ask ? Rom. I dreamt a dream to-night.
Mer. O, then, I see, queen Mab hath been 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
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep:
Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs,
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ;
The traces, of the smallest spider's web:
The collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams;
Her whip, of cricket's bone ; the lash, of film;
Her wagoner, a small gray-coated gnat,
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 of mind the fairies' coach-makers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
On courtiers' knees, that dream on court’sies straight :
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees;
O’er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream;
Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit :
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,
Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep,
Then dreams he 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
Drums in his ear; at which he starts, and wakes;
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again.
Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace;
Thou talk'st of nothing.
True, I talk of drearns ;
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy ;
Which is as thin of substance as the air;
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south:
Ben. This wind, you talk of, blows us from ourselves; Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
Rom. I fear, too early : for my mind misgives,
Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night's revels; and expire the term
Of a despised life, clos'd in my breast,
By some vile forfeit of untimely death :
But He, that hath the steerage of my course,
Direct my sail !-On, gentlemen.
SCENE V.-A Hall in Capulet's House.
Enter CAPULET, foc. with the Guests, and the Maskers.
Cap. You are 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 ;—'tis gone, 'tis gone,
gone : You are welcome, gentlemen -Come, musicians, play.
[Music plays, and they douce. Rom. What lady's that, which doth enrich the hand Of yonder knight ?
Serv. I know not, sir.
Rom. O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright !
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear:
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand,
And, touching hers, make happy my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now ? forswear it, sight !
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
Tyb. This, by his voice, should be a Montague :
Fetch me my rapier, boy :—What! dares the slave
Come hither, covered with an antic face,
To feer and scorn at our solemnity ?
Now, by the stock and honor 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’t ?
'Tis he, that villain Ronec,
Cap. 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 this town,
Flere 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 ;
['ll not endure him.
He shall be endur’d;
Am I the master here, or you ? go to.
Be quiet, cousin, or—I'll make you quiet.
Tyb. Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting
my flesh tremble in their different greeting. I will withdraw : but this intrusion shall, Now seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall.
[E.cil Rom. If I profane with my unworthy hand (TO JULIET. This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this,
Jul. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
For palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss.
Rom. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too ?
Jul. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
Rom. Thus, then, dear saint, let lips put up their prayer. [Sa-
Nurse. Madam, your mother craves a word with you. [lutes her.
Rom. 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.
Ben. Away, begone; the sport is at the best.
Rom. Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest.
Cap. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone ;
We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.
e'en so? Why, then I thank you all; I thank you, honest gentlemen; good night:I'll to my rest.
(Exeunt all but JULIET, and Nurse Jul. Come hither, nurse ; What is yon gentleman ? Nurse. The son and heir of old Tiberio. Jul. What's he, that now is going out of door ? Nurse. Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio. Jul. What's he, that iollows there, that would not dance ? Nurse. I know not. 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 !
Nurse. What's this? What's this ?
A rhyme I learn'd even now
Of one I danc'd withal.
[One calls within, JULIET. Nurse.
Come, let's away: the strangers all are gone.