The Dramatic Works of William Shakespeare

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Go, then; for 'tis in vain To seek him here, that means not to be found. Exeunt.

SCENE 11. Capulet's Garden.
Enter Romeo.
Romeo.

He jests at scars, that never felt

a wound.

Julict appears above, at a window.
But, soft! what light through yonder window
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! - [breaks ?
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 rone but fools do wear it; cast it off. -
It is my lady; Ol 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! Of that I were a glove upon that hand,

That I might touch that cheek.

Jullet.

Ah me!

Juliet.

'Tis but thy name, that is my enemy: Thou art thyself though, not a Montague. What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O! be some other name. What's in a name? that which we call a rose, By any other name would smell as sweet; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, Retain that dear perfection which he owes, Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name; And for thy name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself?

Romeo.

I take thee at thy word.

Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'd;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

Juliet.

What man art thou, that, thus bescreen'd in

So stumblest on my counsel?

Romeo.

By a name

I know not how to tell thee who I am:
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee:
Had I it written, I would tear the word.

Juliet.

[night,

My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

Romeo.

Neither, fair saint, if either thee displease.

Juliet.

How cam'st thou hither, tell me? and where-
fore?

The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb;
And the place death, considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen find thee here.

Romeo.

With love's light wings did I o'erperch these
walls;

For stony limits cannot hold love out:
And what love can do, that dares love attempt;
Therefore, thy kinsmen are no let to me.

Juliet.

If they do see thee, they will murder thee.
Romeo.

Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye,
Than twenty of their swords: look thou but
And I am proof against their enmity.

Juliet.

(sweet,

I would not for the world they saw thee here.
Romeo.

I have night's cloak to hide me from their
eyes;
And but thou love me, let them find me here:
My life were better ended by their hate,
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.

Juliet.

By whose direction found'st thou out this place?

Romeo.

By love, that first did prompt me to inquire; He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise.

Juliet.

Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face;

Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek, For that which thou hast heard me speak to

night.

Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny What I have spoke: but farewell compliment! Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say

Ay;

if thou think'st I

And I will take thy word; yet, if thou swear'st,
Thou may'st prove false at lovers' perjuries,
They say, Jove laughs. O, gentle Romeo!
If thou dost love pronounce it faithfully:
am too quickly won,
I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo; but, else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;
And therefore thou may'st think my haviour
light:

3 F

But

O blessed blessed night! I am afeard, Being in night, all this is but a dream,

Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.

Re-enter Juliet, above.

Juliet.

A thousand times the worse, to want thy light.

Love goes toward love, as school-boys from their
books;

But love from love, toward school with heavy
looks.
[Retiring.

Re-enter Juliet, above.
Juliet.

Hist! Romeo, hist! - O, for a falconer's voice,
To lure this tercel-gentle back again!
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud;
Else would I tear the cave where echo lies,
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than
mine

With repetition of my Romeo's name.

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

Juliet.

'Tis almost morning, I would have thee gone; And yet no farther than a wanton's bird, Who lets it hop a little from her hand,

Three words, dear Romeo, and good night, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,

indeed.

If that thy bent of love be honourable,

Thy purpose marriage, send me word to

morrow,

And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of his liberty.
Romeo.

I would, I were thy bird.

Juliet.

Sweet, so would I: Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good night, good night: parting is such sweet That I shall say good night, till it be morrow. [Exit. Romeo.

sorrow,

Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy
breast!-

Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!
Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell;

His help to crave, and my good hap to tell Exit.

SCENE III. Friar Laurence's Cell.
Enter Friar Laurence, with a basket.
Friar.

The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning
night,

Checquering the eastern clouds with streaks of light;

And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels
From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels:
Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye
The day to cheer, and night's dank dew to dry,
I must up-fill this osier cage of ours,

With baleful weeds, and precious-juiced flowers.
The earth, that's nature's mother, is her tomb;
What is her burying grave, that is her womb;
And from her womb children of divers kind
We sucking on her natural bosom find:
Many for many virtues excellent,
None but for some, and yet all different.
O! mickle is the powerful grace that lies
In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities:
For nought so vile that on the earth doth live
But to the earth some special good doth give;
Nor aught so good, but strain'd from that fair

use,

Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse:
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,
And vice sometime's by action dignified.
Within the infant rind of this weak flower
Poison hath residence, and medicine power:
For this being smelt, with that part cheers each

part;

Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed kings 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.

Enter Romeo.
Romeo.

Good morrow, father!

Friar.

With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no;
I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.

Friar.

That's my good son: but where hast thou been, then ?

Romeo.

I'll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again.
I have been feasting with mine enemy;
Where, on a sudden, one hath wounded me,
That's by me wounded: both our remedies
Within thy help and holy physic lies:
I bear no hatred, blessed man; for, lo!
My intercession likewise steads my foe.

Friar.

Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.
Romeo.

Then plainly know, my heart's dear love is set
On the fair daughter of rich Capulet:
As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;
And all combin'd, save what thou must combine
By holy marriage. When, and where, and how,
We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow,
I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,
That thou consent to marry us to-day.

Priar.

Holy Saint Francis! what a change is here!
Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? young men's love, then, lies
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Jesu Maria! what a deal of brine

Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!
How much salt water thrown away in waste
To season love, that of it doth not taste!
The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,
Thy old groans ring yet in my ancient ears;
Lo! here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit
Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet.
If e'er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline:
And art thou chang'd? pronounce this sentence,
[men.
Women may fall, when there's no strength in

then

Romeo.

Thou chidd'st me oft for loving Rosaline.
Friar.

For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.
Romeo.
And bad'st me bury love,
Friar.

Not in a grave,

To lay one in, another out to have.

Romeo.

I pray thee, chide not: she, whom I love now, Doth grace for grace, and love for love allow : The other did not so.

Friar

O! she knew well, Thy love did read by rote, and could not spell. I'll thy assistant be; But come, young waverer, come, go with me,

one

respect

For this alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your households' rancour to pure love.

Romeo.

O! let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.

Friar.

Wisely, and slow: they stumble that run fast.

[Exeunt.

SCENE

The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes, these new tuners of accents!- "By 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 fashionmongers, these pardonnez-mois, who stand so much on the new form, that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O, their bons, their bons!

Enter Romeo. Benvolio.

Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo.
Mercutio.

Without his roe, like a dried herring.-0 flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! - Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in: Laura, to his lady, was a kitchen-wench; - marry, she had a better love to be-rhyme her: Dido, a dowdy; Cleopatra, a gipsy; Helen and Hero, hildings and harlots; Thisbe, a grey eye or so, 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.

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The Dramatic Works of William Shakespeare: With a Glossary