Enter JULIET, above.

Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night, indeed :

If that thy bent of love be honourable,

Thy purpose, marriage, send me word to-morrow,
By one that I'll procure to come to thee,

Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite;
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay,

And follow thee, my love, throughout the world.-
Nurse. [Within.] Madam!

Jul. I come, anon

I do beseech thee

-but if thou mean'st not well,

Nurse. [Within.] Madam!

Jul. By and by, I come

To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief.

To-morrow will I send.

Jul. A thousand times good night!

[Exit.

Rom. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light.

Enter JULIET.

Jul. Hist! Romeo, hist! O for a falc'ner's voice, To lure this tassel-gentle back again

Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud,
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,

And make her angry tongue more hoarse than mine
With repetition of my Romeo.

Rom. It is my love, that calls upon my name. How silver sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears!

Jul. Romeo!

Rom. My sweet!

Jul. At what o'clock to-morrow

Shall I send to thee?

Rom. By the hour of nine.

Jul. I will not fail-'tis twenty years till thenI have forgot why I did call thee back.

Rom. Let me stand here, till thou remember it. Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Rememb'ring how I love thy company.

Rom. And I'll stay here, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this.

Jul. 'Tis almost morning, I would have thee gone, And yet not farther than a wanton's bird, That lets it hop a little from her hand, And with a silk thread pulls it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.

Rom. I would I were thy bird.

Jul. Sweet, so would I ;

Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.Good night, good night. Parting is such sweet sor

row,

That I shall say, good night, 'till it be morrow. [Exit. Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy

breast;

Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!

SCENE III.

[Exit.

A Monastery.

Enter FRIAR LAWRENCE, with a Basket.

Fri. The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning

night, Check'ring the eastern clouds with streaks of light; Now ere the sun advance his burning eye,

The day to cheat, and night's dank dew to dry,
I must fill up this osier cage of ours,

With baleful weeds, and precious juiced flowers.
O mickle is the powerful grace that lies

In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities.

For naught so vile, that on the earth doth live,
But to the earth, some special good doth give:
Not aught so good, but strain'd from that fair use,
Revolts to vice, and stumbles on abuse.
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,
And vice, sometimes, by action's dignified.
Within the infant rind of this small flower,
Poison hath residence, and med'cine power:
For this being smelt, with that sense cheers each
part;

Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed foes encamp them still
In man, as well as herbs; grace and rude will;
And, where the worser is predominant,
Full soon the canker, death, eats up that plant.
Rom. [Within.] Good morrow, father.
Fri. Benedicite,

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?

Enter ROMEO.

Young son, it argues a distemper'd head,
So soon to bid good-morrow to thy pillow;
Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,
And where care lodgeth, sleep will never bide:
But where with unstuff'd brain, unbruised youth
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep resides;
Therefore thy earliness assureth me,

Thou art uprous'd by some distemperature.
What is the matter, son?

Rom. I'll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again:
I have been feasting with mine enemy,

Where, to the heart's core, one hath wounded me,
That's by me wounded; both our remedies
Within thy help, and holy physic lie.

Fri. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift.
Rom. Then plainly know, my heart's dear love is

set

On Juliet, Capulet's fair daughter,

As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine:
But when, and where, and how

We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vows,
I'll tell thee as we pass ;-but this I beg,
That thou consent to marry us to-day.

Fri. Holy Saint Francis, what a change is this!
But, tell me, son, and call thy reason home,
Is not this love the offspring of thy folly,
Bred from thy wantonness and thoughtless brain?
Be heedful, youth, and see you stop betimes,
Lest that thy rash ungovernable passions,
O'erleaping duty, and each due regard,

Hurry thee on, thro' short-liv'd, dear-bought, plea

sures,

To cureless woes, and lasting penitence.

Rom. I pray thee, chide me not; she, whom I love, Doth give me grace for grace, and love for love: Do thou, with Heav'n, smile upon our union; Do not withhold thy benediction from us, But make two hearts, by holy marriage, one. Fri. Well, come, my pupil, go along with me, In one respect, I'll give thee my assistance; For this alliance may so happy prove, To turn your household rancour, to pure love.

Rom. O let us hence, love stands on sudden haste. Fri. Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

A Street.

Enter BENVOLIO and MERCUTIO.

Mer. Where the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home to-night?

Ben. Not to his father's; I spoke with his man.

Mer. Why, that same pale, hardhearted wench, that Juliet,

Torments him so, that he will sure run mad,

Ben. Tibalt, the kinsman of old Capulet, hath sent a letter to his father's house.

Mer. A challenge, on my life.

Ben. Romeo will answer it.

Mer. Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead!
Ben. Dead!—

Mer. 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 butt shaft; and is he a man to encounter Tibalt ?

Ben. Why, what is Tibalt?

Mer. Oh, he's the courageous captain of compliments; he fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests his minum 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 hayBen. The what?

Mer. The pox of such antic, lisping, affected, fantasticoes, these new tuners of accents:

-Jesu, a

very good blade- -a very tall man—a very good whore-Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion mongers, these pardonnezmoi's?

Ben. 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 but a kitchen wench; marry, she had a better love to berhyme her: Dido a dowdy: Cleopatra a gipsy, Helen and Hero hildings and harlots: Thisbe a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose.