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Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye
Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires :
And burn the heretics. All-seeing Phæbus
Ne'er saw her match, since first his course began.
Mer. Tut, tut, you saw her fair, none else being

Herself pois’d with herself; but let be weigh'd
Your lady love against some other fair,
And she will show scant weight.

Rom. I will along, Mercutio.

Mer. 'Tis well.
Hear all, all see, try all; and like her most,
That most shall merit thee.

Rom. My mind is chang'
I will not go to-night.

Mer. Why, may one ask?
Rom. I dream'd a dream last night.

Mer. Ha! ha! a dream ?
0, then I see Queen Mab has been with you.
She is the fancy's midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore finger of an alderman,
Drawn with the team of little atomies,
Athwart men's noses, as they lie asleep;
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinner's 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 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 of mind the fairies' coachmakers :
And in this state she gallops night by night,
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
On courtiers' knces, that dream on court'sies straight;


On doctors' fingers, who straight dream on fees;
On ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream :
Sometimes she gallops o’er a lawyer's nose,
And then he dreams of smelling out a suit :
And sometimes comes she with a tithe pig's tail,
Tickling the parson, as he lies asleep;
Then dreams he of another benefice:
Sometimes 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 ears, at which he starts, and wakes,
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again. This is that Mab-

Rom. Peace, peace,
Thou talk'st of nothing,

Mer. True, I talk of dreams; Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing, but vain phantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more unconstant than the wind. Ben. This wind you talk of, blows us from our

And we shall come too late.

Rom. I fear, too early; for my mind misgives
Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,
From this night's revels-lead, gallant friends,

[Exeunt Mercurio and BENVOLIO.
Let come what may, once more I will behold
My Juliet's eyes, drink deeper of affliction :
I'll watch the time; and, mask'd from observation,
Make known my sufferings, but conceal my name :
Tho' hate and discord 'twixt our sires increase,
Let in our hearts dwell love and endless peace.





Lady C. Nurse, where's my daughter? call her forth to me.

Nurse. Now by my faith I bade her come; what lamb, what lady-bird, God forbid-where's this girl? what Juliet !


Jul. How now, who calls?
Nurse, Your mother.

Jul. Madam, I am here, what is your will?

Lady C. This is the matter- -Nurse, give leave a while, we must talk in secret;-Nurse, come back again. I have remembered me, thou shalt hear my counsel. Thou know'st my daughter's of a pretty age.

Nurse. Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.
Lady C. She's not eighteen.

Nurse. I'll lay eighteen of my teeth, and yet to my teeth be it spoken, I have but eight, she's not eighteen. how long is it now to Lammas-tide?

Lady C. A fortnight and odd days.

Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in the year,
Come Lammas eve at night shall she be eighteen.
Susan and she (God rest all christian souls)
Were of an age. Well, Susan is in Heaven:
She was too good for me. But, as I said,
On Lammas eve at night shall she be eighteen,
That shall she; marry, I remember it well.
'Tis since the earthquake now just fifteen years,
And she was weaned; I never shall forget it,
Of all the days in the year upon that day:
For I had then laid wormwood to my breast,
Sitting in the sun, under the dove-house wall;

My lord and you were then at Mantua :-
Nay, I do bear a brain.

Jul. I pray thee, peace.
Nurse. Peace, I have done, Heaven mark thee to

its grace.

Thou wast the prettiest babe that ere I nurs’d:
An' I might live to see thee married once,
I have


wish. Lady Č. And that same marriage is the very

theme I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your disposition to be married ?

Jul. It is an honour, that I dream not of.

Nurse. An honour? were not I thine only nurse, I'd

say, thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy breast. Lady C. Well, think of marriage now. Younger

than you,


Here in Verena, ladies of esteem,
Are made already mothers. By my 'count,
I was your mother much upon these years
That you are now a maid. 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.

Lady C. Verona's summer hath not such a flower.
Nurse. Nay; he's a flower, in faith, a very flower.
Lady C. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love?

Jul. I'll look to like, if looking liking move;
But no more deep will I indart my eye,
Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.

Enter Peter. Peter. Madam, new guests are come, and brave ones, all in masks. You are called; my young lady asked for, the Nurse cursed in the pantry; supper almost ready to be served up, and every thing in extremity. I must hence, and wait. I beseech you, follow straight. Lady C. We follow thee.



A Hall in CAPULET'S House.

The CAPULETS, LADIES, GUESTS, and MASKERS are discovered.-Music plays.

Cap. Welcome, gentlemen. Ladies, that have



Unplagu'd with corns, we'll have a bout with you. Who'll now deny to dance? She, that makes dainty, I'll swear hath corns.


Welcome all, gentlemen; I've 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; 'tis gone.
More light, ye knaves, and turn the tables up;
And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.

Rom. Cousin Benvolio, do you mark that lady which

Doth enrich the hand of yonder gentleman ?

Ben. I do.

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

Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night,
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's car;
I'll wait her to her place,

And, touching hers, make happy my rude hand.
Be still, be still, my fluttering heart.

Tib. This, by his voice, should be a Montague,
What, dares the slave

Come hither, cover'd with an antic face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?

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