{"collection":"sks","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/sks/ff/raj.htm","path":"sks/ff/raj.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/sks/ff/raj.htm","text":"Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.\nEnter Sampson and Gregory, with Swords and Bucklers, of the\nHouse of\nCapulet.\nSampson. Gregory: A my word wee'l not carry coales\nGreg. No, for then we should be Colliars\nSamp. I mean, if we be in choller, wee'l draw\nGreg. I, While you liue, draw your necke out\no'th Collar\nSamp. I strike quickly, being mou'd\nGreg. But thou art not quickly mou'd to strike\nSamp. A dog of the house of Mountague, moues me\nGreg. To moue, is to stir: and to be valiant, is to stand:\nTherefore, if thou art mou'd, thou runst away\nSamp. A dogge of that house shall moue me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any Man or Maid of Mountagues\nGreg. That shewes thee a weake slaue, for the weakest\ngoes to the wall\nSamp. True, and therefore women being the weaker\nVessels, are euer thrust to the wall: therefore I will push\nMountagues men from the wall, and thrust his Maides to\nthe wall\nGreg. The Quarrell is betweene our Masters, and vs their men\nSamp. 'Tis all one, I will shew my selfe a tyrant: when\nI haue fought with the men, I will bee ciuill with the\nMaids, and cut off their heads\nGreg. The heads of the Maids?\nSam. I, the heads of the Maids, or their Maiden-heads,\nTake it in what sence thou wilt\nGreg. They must take it sence, that feele it\nSamp. Me they shall feele while I am able to stand:\nAnd 'tis knowne I am a pretty peece of flesh\nGreg. 'Tis well thou art not Fish: If thou had'st, thou\nhad'st beene poore Iohn. Draw thy Toole, here comes of\nthe House of the Mountagues.\nEnter two other Seruingmen.\nSam. My naked weapon is out: quarrel, I wil back thee\nGre. How? Turne thy backe, and run\nSam. Feare me not\nGre. No marry: I feare thee\nSam. Let vs take the Law of our sides: let them begin\nGr. I wil frown as I passe by, & let the[m] take it as they list\nSam. Nay, as they dare. I wil bite my Thumb at them,\nwhich is a disgrace to them, if they beare it\nAbra. Do you bite your Thumbe at vs sir?\nSamp. I do bite my Thumbe, sir\nAbra. Do you bite your Thumb at vs, sir?\nSam. Is the Law of our side, if I say I?\nGre. No\nSam. No sir, I do not bite my Thumbe at you sir: but\nI bite my Thumbe sir\nGreg. Do you quarrell sir?\nAbra. Quarrell sir? no sir\nSam. If you do sir, I am for you, I serue as good a man as you\nAbra. No better?\nSamp. Well sir.\nEnter Benuolio.\nGr. Say better: here comes one of my masters kinsmen\nSamp. Yes, better\nAbra. You Lye\nSamp. Draw if you be men. Gregory, remember thy\nwashing blow.\nThey Fight.\nBen. Part Fooles, put vp your Swords, you know not\nwhat you do.\nEnter Tibalt.\nTyb. What art thou drawne, among these heartlesse\nHindes? Turne thee Benuolio, looke vpon thy death\nBen. I do but keepe the peace, put vp thy Sword,\nOr manage it to part these men with me\nTyb. What draw, and talke of peace? I hate the word\nAs I hate hell, all Mountagues, and thee:\nHaue at thee Coward.\nFight.\nEnter three or foure Citizens with Clubs.\nOffi. Clubs, Bils, and Partisons, strike, beat them down\nDowne with the Capulets, downe with the Mountagues.\nEnter old Capulet in his Gowne, and his wife.\nCap. What noise is this? Giue me my long Sword ho\nWife. A crutch, a crutch: why call you for a Sword?\nCap. My Sword I say: Old Mountague is come,\nAnd flourishes his Blade in spight of me.\nEnter old Mountague, & his wife.\nMoun. Thou villaine Capulet. Hold me not, let me go\n2.Wife. Thou shalt not stir a foote to seeke a Foe.\nEnter Prince Eskales, with his Traine.\nPrince. Rebellious Subiects, Enemies to peace,\nProphaners of this Neighbor-stained Steele,\nWill they not heare? What hoe, you Men, you Beasts,\nThat quench the fire of your pernitious Rage,\nWith purple Fountaines issuing from your Veines:\nOn paine of Torture, from those bloody hands\nThrow your mistemper'd Weapons to the ground,\nAnd heare the Sentence of your mooued Prince.\nThree ciuill Broyles, bred of an Ayery word,\nBy thee old Capulet and Mountague,\nHaue thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets,\nAnd made Verona's ancient Citizens\nCast by their Graue beseeming Ornaments,\nTo wield old Partizans, in hands as old,\nCankred with peace, to part your Cankred hate,\nIf euer you disturbe our streets againe,\nYour liues shall pay the forfeit of the peace.\nFor this time all the rest depart away:\nYou Capulet shall goe along with me,\nAnd Mountague come you this afternoone,\nTo know our Fathers pleasure in this case:\nTo old Free-towne, our common iudgement place:\nOnce more on paine of death, all men depart.\nExeunt.\nMoun. Who set this auncient quarrell new abroach?\nSpeake Nephew, were you by, when it began:\nBen. Heere were the seruants of your aduersarie,\nAnd yours close fighting ere I did approach,\nI drew to part them, in the instant came\nThe fiery Tibalt, with his sword prepar'd,\nWhich as he breath'd defiance to my eares,\nHe swong about his head, and cut the windes,\nWho nothing hurt withall, hist him in scorne.\nWhile we were enterchanging thrusts and blowes,\nCame more and more, and fought on part and part,\nTill the Prince came, who parted either part\nWife. O where is Romeo, saw you him to day?\nRight glad am I, he was not at this fray\nBen. Madam, an houre before the worshipt Sun\nPeer'd forth the golden window of the East,\nA troubled mind draue me to walke abroad,\nWhere vnderneath the groue of Sycamour,\nThat West-ward rooteth from this City side:\nSo earely walking did I see your Sonne:\nTowards him I made, but he was ware of me,\nAnd stole into the couert of the wood,\nI measuring his affections by my owne,\nWhich then most sought, wher most might not be found:\nBeing one too many by my weary selfe,\nPursued my Honour, not pursuing his\nAnd gladly shunn'd, who gladly fled from me\nMount. Many a morning hath he there beene seene,\nWith teares augmenting the fresh mornings deaw,\nAdding to cloudes, more cloudes with his deepe sighes,\nBut all so soone as the all-cheering Sunne,\nShould in the farthest East begin to draw\nThe shadie Curtaines from Auroras bed,\nAway from light steales home my heauy Sonne,\nAnd priuate in his Chamber pennes himselfe,\nShuts vp his windowes, lockes faire day-light out,\nAnd makes himselfe an artificiall night:\nBlacke and portendous must this humour proue,\nVnlesse good counsell may the cause remoue\nBen. My Noble Vncle doe you know the cause?\nMoun. I neither know it, nor can learne of him\nBen. Haue you importun'd him by any meanes?\nMoun. Both by my selfe and many other Friends,\nBut he his owne affections counseller,\nIs to himselfe (I will not say how true)\nBut to himselfe so secret and so close,\nSo farre from sounding and discouery,\nAs is the bud bit with an enuious worme,\nEre he can spread his sweete leaues to the ayre,\nOr dedicate his beauty to the same.\nCould we but learne from whence his sorrowes grow,\nWe would as willingly giue cure, as know.\nEnter Romeo.\nBen. See where he comes, so please you step aside,\nIle know his greeuance, or be much denide\nMoun. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay,\nTo heare true shrift. Come Madam let's away.\nExeunt.\nBen. Good morrow Cousin\nRom. Is the day so young?\nBen. But new strooke nine\nRom. Aye me, sad houres seeme long:\nWas that my Father that went hence so fast?\nBen. It was: what sadnes lengthens Romeo's houres?\nRo. Not hauing that, which hauing, makes them short\nBen. In loue\nRomeo. Out\nBen. Of loue\nRom. Out of her fauour where I am in loue\nBen. Alas that loue so gentle in his view,\nShould be so tyrannous and rough in proofe\nRom. Alas that loue, whose view is muffled still,\nShould without eyes, see path-wayes to his will:\nWhere shall we dine? O me: what fray was heere?\nYet tell me not, for I haue heard it all:\nHeere's much to do with hate, but more with loue:\nWhy then, O brawling loue, O louing hate,\nO any thing, of nothing first created:\nO heauie lightnesse, serious vanity,\nMishapen Chaos of welseeming formes,\nFeather of lead, bright smoake, cold fire, sicke health,\nStill waking sleepe, that is not what it is:\nThis loue feele I, that feele no loue in this.\nDoest thou not laugh?\nBen. No Coze, I rather weepe\nRom. Good heart, at what?\nBen. At thy good hearts oppression\nRom. Why such is loues transgression.\nGriefes of mine owne lie heauie in my breast,\nWhich thou wilt propagate to haue it preast\nWith more of thine, this loue that thou hast showne,\nDoth adde more griefe, to too much of mine owne.\nLoue, is a smoake made with the fume of sighes,\nBeing purg'd, a fire sparkling in Louers eyes,\nBeing vext, a Sea nourisht with louing teares,\nWhat is it else? a madnesse, most discreet,\nA choking gall, and a preseruing sweet:\nFarewell my Coze\nBen. Soft I will goe along.\nAnd if you leaue me so, you do me wrong\nRom. Tut I haue lost my selfe, I am not here,\nThis is not Romeo, hee's some other where\nBen. Tell me in sadnesse, who is that you loue?\nRom. What shall I grone and tell thee?\nBen. Grone, why no: but sadly tell me who\nRom. A sicke man in sadnesse makes his will:\nA word ill vrg'd to one that is so ill:\nIn sadnesse Cozin, I do loue a woman\nBen. I aym'd so neare, when I suppos'd you lou'd\nRom. A right good marke man, and shee's faire I loue\nBen. A right faire marke, faire Coze, is soonest hit\nRom. Well in that hit you misse, sheel not be hit\nWith Cupids arrow, she hath Dians wit:\nAnd in strong proofe of chastity well arm'd:\nFrom loues weake childish Bow, she liues vncharm'd.\nShee will not stay the siege of louing tearmes,\nNor bid th' encounter of assailing eyes.\nNor open her lap to Sainct-seducing Gold:\nO she is rich in beautie, onely poore,\nThat when she dies, with beautie dies her store\nBen. Then she hath sworne, that she will still liue chast?\nRom. She hath, and in that sparing make huge wast?\nFor beauty steru'd with her seuerity,\nCuts beauty off from all posteritie.\nShe is too faire, too wise: wisely too faire,\nTo merit blisse by making me dispaire:\nShe hath forsworne to loue, and in that vow\nDo I liue dead, that liue to tell it now\nBen. Be rul'd by me, forget to thinke of her\nRom. O teach me how I should forget to thinke\nBen. By giuing liberty vnto thine eyes,\nExamine other beauties,\nRo. 'Tis the way to cal hers (exquisit) in question more,\nThese happy maskes that kisse faire Ladies browes,\nBeing blacke, puts vs in mind they hide the faire:\nHe that is strooken blind, cannot forget\nThe precious treasure of his eye-sight lost:\nShew me a Mistresse that is passing faire,\nWhat doth her beauty serue but as a note,\nWhere I may read who past that passing faire.\nFarewell thou can'st not teach me to forget,\nBen. Ile pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.\nExeunt.\nEnter Capulet, Countie Paris, and the Clowne.\nCapu. Mountague is bound as well as I,\nIn penalty alike, and 'tis not hard I thinke,\nFor men so old as wee, to keepe the peace\nPar. Of Honourable reckoning are you both,\nAnd pittie 'tis you liu'd at ods so long:\nBut now my Lord, what say you to my sute?\nCapu. But saying ore what I haue said before,\nMy Child is yet a stranger in the world,\nShee hath not seene the change of fourteene yeares,\nLet two more Summers wither in their pride,\nEre we may thinke her ripe to be a Bride\nPari. Younger then she, are happy mothers made\nCapu. And too soone mar'd are those so early made:\nEarth hath swallowed all my hopes but she,\nShee's the hopefull Lady of my earth:\nBut wooe her gentle Paris, get her heart,\nMy will to her consent, is but a part,\nAnd shee agree, within her scope of choise,\nLyes my consent, and faire according voice:\nThis night I hold an old accustom'd Feast,\nWhereto I haue inuited many a Guest,\nSuch as I loue, and you among the store,\nOne more, most welcome makes my number more:\nAt my poore house, looke to behold this night,\nEarth-treading starres, that make darke heauen light,\nSuch comfort as do lusty young men feele,\nWhen well apparrel'd Aprill on the heele\nOf limping Winter treads, euen such delight\nAmong fresh Fennell buds shall you this night\nInherit at my house: heare all, all see:\nAnd like her most, whose merit most shall be:\nWhich one more veiw, of many, mine being one,\nMay stand in number, though in reckning none.\nCome, goe with me: goe sirrah trudge about,\nThrough faire Verona, find those persons out,\nWhose names are written there, and to them say,\nMy house and welcome, on their pleasure stay.\nEnter.\nSer. Find them out whose names are written. Heere it\nis written, that the Shoo-maker should meddle with his\nYard, and the Tayler with his Last, the Fisher with his\nPensill, and the Painter with his Nets. But I am sent to\nfind those persons whose names are writ, & can neuer find\nwhat names the writing person hath here writ (I must to\nthe learned) in good time.\nEnter Benuolio, and Romeo.\nBen. Tut man, one fire burnes out anothers burning,\nOne paine is lesned by anothers anguish:\nTurne giddie, and be holpe by backward turning:\nOne desparate greefe, cures with anothers languish:\nTake thou some new infection to the eye,\nAnd the rank poyson of the old wil die\nRom. Your Plantan leafe is excellent for that\nBen. For what I pray thee?\nRom. For your broken shin\nBen. Why Romeo art thou mad?\nRom. Not mad, but bound more then a mad man is:\nShut vp in prison, kept without my foode,\nWhipt and tormented: and Godden good fellow,\nSer. Godgigoden, I pray sir can you read?\nRom. I mine owne fortune in my miserie\nSer. Perhaps you haue learn'd it without booke:\nBut I pray can you read any thing you see?\nRom. I, if I know the Letters and the Language\nSer. Ye say honestly, rest you merry\nRom. Stay fellow, I can read.\nHe reades the Letter.\nSeigneur Martino, and his wife and daughter: County Anselme\nand his beautious sisters: the Lady widdow of Vtruuio,\nSeigneur Placentio, and his louely Neeces: Mercutio and\nhis brother Valentine: mine vncle Capulet his wife and daughters:\nmy faire Neece Rosaline, Liuia, Seigneur Valentio, & his\nCosen Tybalt: Lucio and the liuely Helena.\nA faire assembly, whither should they come?\nSer. Vp\nRom. Whither? to supper?\nSer. To our house\nRom. Whose house?\nSer. My Maisters\nRom. Indeed I should haue askt you that before\nSer. Now Ile tell you without asking. My maister is\nthe great rich Capulet, and if you be not of the house of\nMountagues I pray come and crush a cup of wine. Rest\nyou merry.\nEnter.\nBen. At this same auncient Feast of Capulets\nSups the faire Rosaline, whom thou so loues:\nWith all the admired Beauties of Verona,\nGo thither and with vnattainted eye,\nCompare her face with some that I shall show,\nAnd I will make thee thinke thy Swan a Crow\nRom. When the deuout religion of mine eye\nMaintaines such falshood, then turne teares to fire:\nAnd these who often drown'd could neuer die,\nTransparent Heretiques be burnt for liers.\nOne fairer then my loue: the all-seeing Sun\nNere saw her match, since first the world begun\nBen. Tut, you saw her faire, none else being by,\nHerselfe poys'd with herselfe in either eye:\nBut in that Christall scales, let there be waid,\nYour Ladies loue against some other Maid\nThat I will show you, shining at this Feast,\nAnd she shew scant shell, well, that now shewes best\nRom. Ile goe along, no such sight to be showne,\nBut to reioyce in splendor of mine owne.\nEnter Capulets Wife and Nurse.\nWife. Nurse wher's my daughter? call her forth to me\nNurse. Now by my Maidenhead, at twelue yeare old\nI bad her come, what Lamb: what Ladi-bird, God forbid,\nWhere's this Girle? what Iuliet?\nEnter Iuliet\nIuliet. How now, who calls?\nNur. Your Mother\nIuliet. Madam I am heere, what is your will?\nWife. This is the matter: Nurse giue me leaue awhile, we\nmust talke in secret. Nurse come backe againe, I haue remembred\nme, thou'se heare our counsell. Thou knowest\nmy daughter's of a prety age\nNurse. Faith I can tell her age vnto an houre\nWife. Shee's not fourteene\nNurse. Ile lay fourteene of my teeth,\nAnd yet to my teene be it spoken,\nI haue but foure, shee's not fourteene.\nHow long is it now to Lammas tide?\nWife. A fortnight and odde dayes\nNurse. Euen or odde, of all daies in the yeare come\nLammas Eue at night shall she be fourteene. Susan & she,\nGod rest all Christian soules, were of an age. Well Susan\nis with God, she was too good for me. But as I said, on Lamas\nEue at night shall she be fourteene, that shall she marie,\nI remember it well. 'Tis since the Earth-quake now\neleuen yeares, and she was wean'd I neuer shall forget it,\nof all the daies of the yeare, vpon that day: for I had then\nlaid Worme-wood to my Dug sitting in the Sunne vnder\nthe Douehouse wall, my Lord and you were then at\nMantua, nay I doe beare a braine. But as I said, when it\ndid tast the Worme-wood on the nipple of my Dugge,\nand felt it bitter, pretty foole, to see it teachie, and fall out\nwith the Dugge, Shake quoth the Doue-house, 'twas no\nneede I trow to bid mee trudge, and since that time it is\na eleuen yeares, for then she could stand alone, nay bi'th'\nroode she could haue runne, & wadled all about: for euen\nthe day before she broke her brow, & then my Husband\nGod be with his soule, a was a merrie man, tooke vp the\nChild, yea quoth hee, doest thou fall vpon thy face? thou\nwilt fall backeward when thou hast more wit, wilt thou\nnot Iule? And by my holy-dam, the pretty wretch lefte\ncrying, & said I: to see now how a Iest shall come about.\nI warrant, & I shall liue a thousand yeares, I neuer should\nforget it: wilt thou not Iule quoth he? and pretty foole it\nstinted, and said I\nOld La. Inough of this, I pray thee hold thy peace\nNurse. Yes Madam, yet I cannot chuse but laugh, to\nthinke it should leaue crying, & say I: and yet I warrant\nit had vpon it brow, a bumpe as big as a young Cockrels\nstone? A perilous knock, and it cryed bitterly. Yea quoth\nmy husband, fall'st vpon thy face, thou wilt fall backward\nwhen thou commest to age: wilt thou not Iule? It\nstinted: and said I\nIule. And stint thou too, I pray thee Nurse, say I\nNur. Peace I haue done: God marke thee too his grace\nthou wast the prettiest Babe that ere I nurst, and I might\nliue to see thee married once, I haue my wish\nOld La. Marry that marry is the very theame\nI came to talke of, tell me daughter Iuliet,\nHow stands your disposition to be Married?\nIuli. It is an houre that I dreame not of\nNur. An houre, were I not thine onely Nurse, I would\nsay thou had'st suckt wisedome from thy teat\nOld La. Well thinke of marriage now, yonger then you\nHeere in Verona, Ladies of esteeme,\nAre made already Mothers. By my count\nI was your Mother, much vpon these yeares\nThat you are now a Maide, thus then in briefe:\nThe valiant Paris seekes you for his loue\nNurse. A man young Lady, Lady, such a man as all\nthe world. Why hee's a man of waxe\nOld La. Veronas Summer hath not such a flower\nNurse. Nay hee's a flower, infaith a very flower\nOld La. What say you, can you loue the Gentleman?\nThis night you shall behold him at our Feast,\nRead ore the volume of young Paris face,\nAnd find delight, writ there with Beauties pen:\nExamine euery seuerall liniament,\nAnd see how one another lends content:\nAnd what obscur'd in this faire volume lies,\nFind written in the Margent of his eyes.\nThis precious Booke of Loue, this vnbound Louer,\nTo Beautifie him, onely lacks a Couer.\nThe fish liues in the Sea, and 'tis much pride\nFor faire without, the faire within to hide:\nThat Booke in manies eyes doth share the glorie,\nThat in Gold claspes, Lockes in the Golden storie:\nSo shall you share all that he doth possesse,\nBy hauing him, making your selfe no lesse\nNurse. No lesse, nay bigger: women grow by men\nOld La. Speake briefly, can you like of Paris loue?\nIuli. Ile looke to like, if looking liking moue.\nBut no more deepe will I endart mine eye,\nThen your consent giues strength to make flye.\nEnter a Seruing man.\nSer. Madam, the guests are come, supper seru'd vp, you\ncal'd, my young Lady askt for, the Nurse cur'st in the Pantery,\nand euery thing in extremitie: I must hence to wait, I\nbeseech you follow straight.\nEnter.\nMo. We follow thee, Iuliet, the Countie staies\nNurse. Goe Gyrle, seeke happie nights to happy daies.\nExeunt.\nEnter Romeo, Mercutio, Benuolio, with fiue or sixe other Maskers,\nTorch-bearers.\nRom. What shall this spech be spoke for our excuse?\nOr shall we on without Apologie?\nBen. The date is out of such prolixitie,\nWeele haue no Cupid, hood winkt with a skarfe,\nBearing a Tartars painted Bow of lath,\nSkaring the Ladies like a Crow-keeper.\nBut let them measure vs by what they will,\nWeele measure them with a Measure, and be gone\nRom. Giue me a Torch, I am not for this ambling.\nBeing but heauy I will beare the light\nMer. Nay gentle Romeo, we must haue you dance\nRom. Not I beleeue me, you haue dancing shooes\nWith nimble soles, I haue a soale of Lead\nSo stakes me to the ground, I cannot moue\nMer. You are a Louer, borrow Cupids wings,\nAnd soare with them aboue a common bound\nRom. I am too sore enpearced with his shaft,\nTo soare with his light feathers, and to bound:\nI cannot bound a pitch aboue dull woe,\nVnder loues heauy burthen doe I sinke\nHora. And to sinke in it should you burthen loue,\nToo great oppression for a tender thing\nRom. Is loue a tender thing? it is too rough,\nToo rude, too boysterous, and it pricks like thorne\nMer. If loue be rough with you, be rough with loue,\nPricke loue for pricking, and you beat loue downe,\nGiue me a Case to put my visage in,\nA Visor for a Visor, what care I\nWhat curious eye doth quote deformities:\nHere are the Beetle-browes shall blush for me\nBen. Come knocke and enter, and no sooner in,\nBut euery man betake him to his legs\nRom. A Torch for me, let wantons light of heart\nTickle the sencelesse rushes with their heeles:\nFor I am prouerb'd with a Grandsier Phrase,\nIle be a Candle-holder and looke on,\nThe game was nere so faire, and I am done\nMer. Tut, duns the Mouse, the Constables owne word,\nIf thou art dun, weele draw thee from the mire.\nOr saue your reuerence loue, wherein thou stickest\nVp to the eares, come we burne day-light ho\nRom. Nay that's not so\nMer. I meane sir I delay,\nWe wast our lights in vaine, lights, lights, by day;\nTake our good meaning, for our Iudgement sits\nFiue times in that, ere once in our fiue wits\nRom. And we meane well in going to this Maske,\nBut 'tis no wit to go\nMer. Why may one aske?\nRom. I dreampt a dreame to night\nMer. And so did I\nRom. Well what was yours?\nMer. That dreamers often lye\nRo. In bed a sleepe while they do dreame things true\nMer. O then I see Queene Mab hath beene with you:\nShe is the Fairies Midwife, & she comes in shape no bigger\nthen Agat-stone, on the fore-finger of an Alderman,\ndrawne with a teeme of little Atomies, ouer mens noses as\nthey lie asleepe: her Waggon Spokes made of long Spinners\nlegs: the Couer of the wings of Grashoppers, her\nTraces of the smallest Spiders web, her coullers of the\nMoonshines watry Beames, her Whip of Crickets bone,\nthe Lash of Philome, her Waggoner, a small gray-coated\nGnat, not halfe so bigge as a round little Worme, prickt\nfrom the Lazie-finger of a man. Her Chariot is an emptie\nHaselnut, made by the Ioyner Squirrel or old Grub, time\nout a mind, the Faries Coach-makers: & in this state she\ngallops night by night, through Louers braines: and then\nthey dreame of Loue. On Courtiers knees, that dreame on\nCursies strait: ore Lawyers fingers, who strait dreampt on\nFees, ore Ladies lips, who strait on kisses dreame, which\noft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, because their\nbreath with Sweet meats tainted are. Sometime she gallops\nore a Courtiers nose, & then dreames he of smelling\nout a sute: & somtime comes she with Tith pigs tale, tickling\na Parsons nose as a lies asleepe, then he dreames of\nanother Benefice. Sometime she driueth ore a Souldiers\nnecke, & then dreames he of cutting Forraine throats, of\nBreaches, Ambuscados, Spanish Blades: Of Healths fiue\nFadome deepe, and then anon drums in his eares, at which\nhe startes and wakes; and being thus frighted, sweares a\nprayer or two & sleepes againe: this is that very Mab that\nplats the manes of Horses in the night: & bakes the Elklocks\nin foule sluttish haires, which once vntangled, much\nmisfortune bodes,\nThis is the hag, when Maides lie on their backs,\nThat presses them, and learnes them first to beare,\nMaking them women of good carriage:\nThis is she\nRom. Peace, peace, Mercutio peace,\nThou talk'st of nothing\nMer. True, I talke of dreames:\nWhich are the children of an idle braine,\nBegot of nothing, but vaine phantasie,\nWhich is as thin of substance as the ayre,\nAnd more inconstant then the wind, who wooes\nEuen now the frozen bosome of the North:\nAnd being anger'd, puffes away from thence,\nTurning his side to the dew dropping South\nBen. This wind you talke of blowes vs from our selues,\nSupper is done, and we shall come too late\nRom. I feare too early, for my mind misgiues,\nSome consequence yet hanging in the starres,\nShall bitterly begin his fearefull date\nWith this nights reuels, and expire the tearme\nOf a despised life clos'd in my brest:\nBy some vile forfeit of vntimely death.\nBut he that hath the stirrage of my course,\nDirect my sute: on lustie Gentlemen\nBen. Strike Drum.\nThey march about the Stage, and Seruingmen come forth with\ntheir napkins.\nEnter Seruant.\nSer. Where's Potpan, that he helpes not to take away?\nHe shift a Trencher? he scrape a Trencher?\n1. When good manners, shall lie in one or two mens\nhands, and they vnwasht too, 'tis a foule thing\nSer. Away with the Ioynstooles, remoue the Courtcubbord,\nlooke to the Plate: good thou, saue mee a piece\nof Marchpane, and as thou louest me, let the Porter let in\nSusan Grindstone, and Nell, Anthonie and Potpan\n2. I Boy readie\nSer. You are lookt for, and cal'd for, askt for, & sought\nfor, in the great Chamber\n1. We cannot be here and there too, chearly Boyes,\nBe brisk awhile, and the longer liuer take all.\nExeunt.\nEnter all the Guests and Gentlewomen to the Maskers.\n1. Capu. Welcome Gentlemen,\nLadies that haue their toes\nVnplagu'd with Cornes, will walke about with you:\nAh my Mistresses, which of you all\nWill now deny to dance? She that makes dainty,\nShe Ile sweare hath Cornes: am I come neare ye now?\nWelcome Gentlemen, I haue seene the day\nThat I haue worne a Visor, and could tell\nA whispering tale in a faire Ladies eare:\nSuch as would please: 'tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone,\nYou are welcome Gentlemen, come Musitians play:\nMusicke plaies: and they dance.\nA Hall, Hall, giue roome, and foote it Girles,\nMore light you knaues, and turne the Tables vp:\nAnd quench the fire, the Roome is growne too hot.\nAh sirrah, this vnlookt for sport comes well:\nNay sit, nay sit, good Cozin Capulet,\nFor you and I are past our dauncing daies:\nHow long 'ist now since last your selfe and I\nWere in a Maske?\n2. Capu. Berlady thirty yeares\n1. Capu. What man: 'tis not so much, 'tis not so much,\n'Tis since the Nuptiall of Lucentio,\nCome Pentycost as quickely as it will,\nSome fiue and twenty yeares, and then we Maskt\n2. Cap. 'Tis more, 'tis more, his Sonne is elder sir:\nHis Sonne is thirty\n3. Cap. Will you tell me that?\nHis Sonne was but a Ward two yeares agoe\nRom. What Ladie is that which doth inrich the hand\nOf yonder Knight?\nSer. I know not sir\nRom. O she doth teach the Torches to burne bright:\nIt seemes she hangs vpon the cheeke of night,\nAs a rich Iewel in an aethiops eare:\nBeauty too rich for vse, for earth too deare:\nSo shewes a Snowy Doue trooping with Crowes,\nAs yonder Lady ore her fellowes showes;\nThe measure done, Ile watch her place of stand,\nAnd touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.\nDid my heart loue till now, forsweare it sight,\nFor I neuer saw true Beauty till this night\nTib. This by his voice, should be a Mountague.\nFetch me my Rapier Boy, what dares the slaue\nCome hither couer'd with an antique face,\nTo fleere and scorne at our Solemnitie?\nNow by the stocke and Honour of my kin,\nTo strike him dead I hold it not a sin\nCap. Why how now kinsman,\nWherefore storme you so?\nTib. Vncle this is a Mountague, our foe:\nA Villaine that is hither come in spight,\nTo scorne at our Solemnitie this night\nCap. Young Romeo is it?\nTib. 'Tis he, that Villaine Romeo\nCap. Content thee gentle Coz, let him alone,\nA beares him like a portly Gentleman:\nAnd to say truth, Verona brags of him,\nTo be a vertuous and well gouern'd youth:\nI would not for the wealth of all the towne,\nHere in my house do him disparagement:\nTherfore be patient, take no note of him,\nIt is my will, the which if thou respect,\nShew a faire presence, and put off these frownes,\nAn ill beseeming semblance for a Feast\nTib. It fits when such a Villaine is a guest,\nIle not endure him\nCap. He shall be endur'd.\nWhat goodman boy, I say he shall, go too,\nAm I the Maister here or you? go too,\nYoule not endure him, God shall mend my soule,\nYoule make a Mutinie among the Guests:\nYou will set cocke a hoope, youle be the man\nTib. Why Vncle, 'tis a shame\nCap. Go too, go too,\nYou are a sawcy Boy, 'ist so indeed?\nThis tricke may chance to scath you, I know what,\nYou must contrary me, marry 'tis time.\nWell said my hearts, you are a Princox, goe,\nBe quiet, or more light, more light for shame,\nIle make you quiet. What, chearely my hearts\nTib. Patience perforce, with wilfull choler meeting,\nMakes my flesh tremble in their different greeting:\nI will withdraw, but this intrusion shall\nNow seeming sweet, conuert to bitter gall.\nEnter.\nRom. If I prophane with my vnworthiest hand,\nThis holy shrine, the gentle sin is this,\nMy lips to blushing Pilgrims did ready stand,\nTo smooth that rough touch, with a tender kisse\nIul. Good Pilgrime,\nYou do wrong your hand too much.\nWhich mannerly deuotion shewes in this,\nFor Saints haue hands, that Pilgrims hands do tuch,\nAnd palme to palme, is holy Palmers kisse\nRom. Haue not Saints lips, and holy Palmers too?\nIul. I Pilgrim, lips that they must vse in prayer\nRom. O then deare Saint, let lips do what hands do,\nThey pray (grant thou) least faith turne to dispaire\nIul. Saints do not moue,\nThough grant for prayers sake\nRom. Then moue not while my prayers effect I take:\nThus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg'd\nIul. Then haue my lips the sin that they haue tooke\nRom. Sin from my lips? O trespasse sweetly vrg'd:\nGiue me my sin againe\nIul. You kisse by'th' booke\nNur. Madam your Mother craues a word with you\nRom. What is her Mother?\nNurs. Marrie Batcheler,\nHer Mother is the Lady of the house,\nAnd a good Lady, and a wise, and Vertuous,\nI Nur'st her Daughter that you talkt withall:\nI tell you, he that can lay hold of her,\nShall haue the chincks\nRom. Is she a Capulet?\nO deare account! My life is my foes debt\nBen. Away, be gone, the sport is at the best\nRom. I so I feare, the more is my vnrest\nCap. Nay Gentlemen prepare not to be gone,\nWe haue a trifling foolish Banquet towards:\nIs it e'ne so? why then I thanke you all.\nI thanke you honest Gentlemen, good night:\nMore Torches here: come on, then let's to bed.\nAh sirrah, by my faie it waxes late,\nIle to my rest\nIuli. Come hither Nurse,\nWhat is yond Gentleman:\nNur. The Sonne and Heire of old Tyberio\nIuli. What's he that now is going out of doore?\nNur. Marrie that I thinke be young Petruchio\nIul. What's he that follows here that would not dance?\nNur. I know not\nIul. Go aske his name: if he be married,\nMy graue is like to be my wedded bed\nNur. His name is Romeo, and a Mountague,\nThe onely Sonne of your great Enemie\nIul. My onely Loue sprung from my onely hate,\nToo early seene, vnknowne, and knowne too late,\nProdigious birth of Loue it is to me,\nThat I must loue a loathed Enemie\nNur. What's this? whats this?\nIul. A rime, I learne euen now\nOf one I dan'st withall.\nOne cals within, Iuliet.\nNur. Anon, anon:\nCome let's away, the strangers all are gone.\nExeunt.\nChorus. Now old desire doth in his death bed lie,\nAnd yong affection gapes to be his Heire,\nThat faire, for which Loue gron'd for and would die,\nWith tender Iuliet matcht, is now not faire.\nNow Romeo is beloued, and Loues againe,\nA like bewitched by the charme of lookes:\nBut to his foe suppos'd he must complaine,\nAnd she steale Loues sweet bait from fearefull hookes:\nBeing held a foe, he may not haue accesse\nTo breath such vowes as Louers vse to sweare,\nAnd she as much in Loue, her meanes much lesse,\nTo meete her new Beloued any where:\nBut passion lends them Power, time, meanes to meete,\nTemp'ring extremities with extreame sweete.\nEnter Romeo alone.\nRom. Can I goe forward when my heart is here?\nTurne backe dull earth, and find thy Center out.\nEnter Benuolio, with Mercutio.\nBen. Romeo, my Cozen Romeo, Romeo\nMerc. He is wise,\nAnd on my life hath stolne him home to bed\nBen. He ran this way and leapt this Orchard wall.\nCall good Mercutio:\nNay, Ile coniure too\nMer. Romeo, Humours, Madman, Passion, Louer,\nAppeare thou in the likenesse of a sigh,\nSpeake but one time, and I am satisfied:\nCry me but ay me, Prouant, but Loue and day,\nSpeake to my goship Venus one faire word,\nOne Nickname for her purblind Sonne and her,\nYoung Abraham Cupid he that shot so true,\nWhen King Cophetua lou'd the begger Maid,\nHe heareth not, he stirreth not, he moueth not,\nThe Ape is dead, I must coniure him,\nI coniure thee by Rosalines bright eyes,\nBy her High forehead, and her Scarlet lip,\nBy her Fine foote, Straight leg, and Quiuering thigh,\nAnd the Demeanes, that there Adiacent lie,\nThat in thy likenesse thou appeare to vs\nBen. And if he heare thee thou wilt anger him\nMer. This cannot anger him, t'would anger him\nTo raise a spirit in his Mistresse circle,\nOf some strange nature, letting it stand\nTill she had laid it, and coniured it downe,\nThat were some spight.\nMy inuocation is faire and honest, & in his Mistris name,\nI coniure onely but to raise vp him\nBen. Come, he hath hid himselfe among these Trees\nTo be consorted with the Humerous night:\nBlind is his Loue, and best befits the darke\nMer. If Loue be blind, Loue cannot hit the marke,\nNow will he sit vnder a Medler tree,\nAnd wish his Mistresse were that kind of Fruite,\nAs Maides cal Medlers when they laugh alone,\nO Romeo that she were, O that she were\nAn open, or thou a Poprin Peare,\nRomeo goodnight, Ile to my Truckle bed,\nThis Field-bed is to cold for me to sleepe,\nCome shall we go?\nBen. Go then, for 'tis in vaine to seeke him here\nThat meanes not to be found.\nExeunt.\nRom. He ieasts at Scarres that neuer felt a wound,\nBut soft, what light through yonder window breaks?\nIt is the East, and Iuliet is the Sunne,\nArise faire Sun and kill the enuious Moone,\nWho is already sicke and pale with griefe,\nThat thou her Maid art far more faire then she:\nBe not her Maid since she is enuious,\nHer Vestal liuery is but sicke and greene,\nAnd none but fooles do weare it, cast it off:\nIt is my Lady, O it is my Loue, O that she knew she were,\nShe speakes, yet she sayes nothing, what of that?\nHer eye discourses, I will answere it:\nI am too bold 'tis not to me she speakes:\nTwo of the fairest starres in all the Heauen,\nHauing some businesse do entreat her eyes,\nTo twinckle in their Spheres till they returne.\nWhat if her eyes were there, they in her head,\nThe brightnesse of her cheeke would shame those starres,\nAs day-light doth a Lampe, her eye in heauen,\nWould through the ayrie Region streame so bright,\nThat Birds would sing, and thinke it were not night:\nSee how she leanes her cheeke vpon her hand.\nO that I were a Gloue vpon that hand,\nThat I might touch that cheeke\nIul. Ay me\nRom. She speakes.\nOh speake againe bright Angell, for thou art\nAs glorious to this night being ore my head,\nAs is a winged messenger of heauen\nVnto the white vpturned wondring eyes\nOf mortalls that fall backe to gaze on him,\nWhen he bestrides the lazie puffing Cloudes,\nAnd sailes vpon the bosome of the ayre\nIul. O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?\nDenie thy Father and refuse thy name:\nOr if thou wilt not, be but sworne to my Loue,\nAnd Ile no longer be a Capulet\nRom. Shall I heare more, or shall I speake at this?\nIu. 'Tis but thy name that is my Enemy:\nThou art thy selfe, though not a Mountague,\nWhat's Mountague? it is nor hand nor foote,\nNor arme, nor face, O be some other name\nBelonging to a man.\nWhat? in a names that which we call a Rose,\nBy any other word would smell as sweete,\nSo Romeo would, were he not Romeo cal'd,\nRetaine that deare perfection which he owes,\nWithout that title Romeo, doffe thy name,\nAnd for thy name which is no part of thee,\nTake all my selfe\nRom. I take thee at thy word:\nCall me but Loue, and Ile be new baptiz'd,\nHence foorth I neuer will be Romeo\nIuli. What man art thou, that thus bescreen'd in night\nSo stumblest on my counsell?\nRom. By a name,\nI know not how to tell thee who I am:\nMy name deare Saint, is hatefull to my selfe,\nBecause it is an Enemy to thee,\nHad I it written, I would teare the word\nIuli. My eares haue yet not drunke a hundred words\nOf thy tongues vttering, yet I know the sound.\nArt thou not Romeo, and a Montague?\nRom. Neither faire Maid, if either thee dislike\nIul. How cam'st thou hither.\nTell me, and wherefore?\nThe Orchard walls are high, and hard to climbe,\nAnd the place death, considering who thou art,\nIf any of my kinsmen find thee here,\nRom. With Loues light wings\nDid I ore-perch these Walls,\nFor stony limits cannot hold Loue out,\nAnd what Loue can do, that dares Loue attempt:\nTherefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me\nIul. If they do see thee, they will murther thee\nRom. Alacke there lies more perill in thine eye,\nThen twenty of their Swords, looke thou but sweete,\nAnd I am proofe against their enmity\nIul. I would not for the world they saw thee here\nRom. I haue nights cloake to hide me from their eyes\nAnd but thou loue me, let them finde me here,\nMy life were better ended by their hate,\nThen death proroged wanting of thy Loue\nIul. By whose direction found'st thou out this place?\nRom. By Loue that first did prompt me to enquire,\nHe lent me counsell, and I lent him eyes,\nI am no Pylot, yet wert thou as far\nAs that vast-shore-washet with the farthest Sea,\nI should aduenture for such Marchandise\nIul. Thou knowest the maske of night is on my face,\nElse would a Maiden blush bepaint my cheeke,\nFor that which thou hast heard me speake to night,\nFaine would I dwell on forme, faine, faine, denie\nWhat I haue spoke, but farewell Complement,\nDoest thou Loue? I know thou wilt say I,\nAnd I will take thy word, yet if thou swear'st,\nThou maiest proue false: at Louers periuries\nThey say Ioue laught, oh gentle Romeo,\nIf thou dost Loue, pronounce it faithfully:\nOr if thou thinkest I am too quickly wonne,\nIle frowne and be peruerse, and say thee nay,\nSo thou wilt wooe: But else not for the world.\nIn truth faire Mountague I am too fond:\nAnd therefore thou maiest thinke my behauiour light,\nBut trust me Gentleman, Ile proue more true,\nThen those that haue coying to be strange,\nI should haue beene more strange, I must confesse,\nBut that thou ouer heard'st ere I was ware\nMy true Loues passion, therefore pardon me,\nAnd not impute this yeelding to light Loue,\nWhich the darke night hath so discouered\nRom. Lady, by yonder Moone I vow,\nThat tips with siluer all these Fruite tree tops\nIul. O sweare not by the Moone, th' inconstant Moone,\nThat monethly changes in her circled Orbe,\nLeast that thy Loue proue likewise variable\nRom. What shall I sweare by?\nIul. Do not sweare at all:\nOr if thou wilt sweare by thy gratious selfe,\nWhich is the God of my Idolatry,\nAnd Ile beleeue thee\nRom. If my hearts deare loue\nIuli. Well do not sweare, although I ioy in thee:\nI haue no ioy of this contract to night,\nIt is too rash, too vnaduis'd, too sudden,\nToo like the lightning which doth cease to be\nEre, one can say, it lightens, Sweete good night:\nThis bud of Loue by Summers ripening breath,\nMay proue a beautious Flower when next we meete:\nGoodnight, goodnight, as sweete repose and rest,\nCome to thy heart, as that within my brest\nRom. O wilt thou leaue me so vnsatisfied?\nIuli. What satisfaction can'st thou haue to night?\nRo. Th' exchange of thy Loues faithfull vow for mine\nIul. I gaue thee mine before thou did'st request it:\nAnd yet I would it were to giue againe\nRom. Would'st thou withdraw it,\nFor what purpose Loue?\nIul. But to be franke and giue it thee againe,\nAnd yet I wish but for the thing I haue,\nMy bounty is as boundlesse as the Sea,\nMy Loue as deepe, the more I giue to thee\nThe more I haue, for both are Infinite:\nI heare some noyse within deare Loue adue:\nCals within.\nAnon good Nurse, sweet Mountague be true:\nStay but a little, I will come againe\nRom. O blessed blessed night, I am afear'd\nBeing in night, all this is but a dreame,\nToo flattering sweet to be substantiall\nIul. Three words deare Romeo,\nAnd goodnight indeed,\nIf that thy bent of Loue be Honourable,\nThy purpose marriage, send me word to morrow,\nBy one that Ile procure to come to thee,\nWhere and what time thou wilt performe the right,\nAnd all my Fortunes at thy foote Ile lay,\nAnd follow thee my Lord throughout the world\nWithin: Madam.\nI come, anon: but if thou meanest not well,\nI do beseech thee\nWithin: Madam.\n(By and by I come)\nTo cease thy strife, and leaue me to my griefe,\nTo morrow will I send\nRom. So thriue my soule\nIu. A thousand times goodnight.\nEnter.\nRome. A thousand times the worse to want thy light,\nLoue goes toward Loue as school-boyes fro[m] their books\nBut Loue fro[m] Loue, towards schoole with heauie lookes.\nEnter Iuliet againe.\nIul. Hist Romeo hist: O for a Falkners voice,\nTo lure this Tassell gentle backe againe,\nBondage is hoarse, and may not speake aloud,\nElse would I teare the Caue where Eccho lies,\nAnd make her ayrie tongue more hoarse, then\nWith repetition of my Romeo\nRom. It is my soule that calls vpon my name.\nHow siluer sweet, sound Louers tongues by night,\nLike softest Musicke to attending eares\nIul. Romeo\nRom. My Neece\nIul. What a clock to morrow\nShall I send to thee?\nRom. By the houre of nine\nIul. I will not faile, 'tis twenty yeares till then,\nI haue forgot why I did call thee backe\nRom. Let me stand here till thou remember it\nIul. I shall forget, to haue thee still stand there,\nRemembring how I Loue thy company\nRom. And Ile still stay, to haue thee still forget,\nForgetting any other home but this\nIul. 'Tis almost morning, I would haue thee gone,\nAnd yet no further then a wantons Bird,\nThat let's it hop a little from his hand,\nLike a poore prisoner in his twisted Gyues,\nAnd with a silken thred plucks it backe againe,\nSo louing Iealous of his liberty\nRom. I would I were thy Bird\nIul. Sweet so would I,\nYet I should kill thee with much cherishing:\nGood night, good night\nRom. Parting is such sweete sorrow,\nThat I shall say goodnight, till it be morrow\nIul. Sleepe dwell vpon thine eyes, peace in thy brest\nRom. Would I were sleepe and peace so sweet to rest,\nThe gray ey'd morne smiles on the frowning night,\nCheckring the Easterne Clouds with streakes of light,\nAnd darkenesse fleckel'd like a drunkard reeles,\nFrom forth dayes pathway, made by Titans wheeles.\nHence will I to my ghostly Friers close Cell,\nHis helpe to craue, and my deare hap to tell.\nEnter.\nEnter Frier alone with a basket.\nFri. The gray ey'd morne smiles on the frowning night,\nCheckring the Easterne Cloudes with streaks of light:\nAnd fleckled darknesse like a drunkard reeles,\nFrom forth daies path, and Titans burning wheeles:\nNow ere the Sun aduance his burning eye,\nThe day to cheere, and nights danke dew to dry,\nI must vpfill this Osier Cage of ours,\nWith balefull weedes, and precious Iuiced flowers,\nThe earth that's Natures mother, is her Tombe,\nWhat is her burying graue that is her wombe:\nAnd from her wombe children of diuers kind\nWe sucking on her naturall bosome find:\nMany for many vertues excellent:\nNone but for some, and yet all different.\nO mickle is the powerfull grace that lies\nIn Plants, Hearbs, stones, and their true qualities:\nFor nought so vile, that on earth doth liue,\nBut to the earth some speciall good doth giue.\nNor ought so good, but strain'd from that faire vse,\nReuolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.\nVertue it selfe turnes vice being misapplied,\nAnd vice sometime by action dignified.\nEnter Romeo.\nWithin the infant rind of this weake flower,\nPoyson hath residence, and medicine power:\nFor this being smelt, with that part cheares each part,\nBeing tasted stayes all sences with the heart.\nTwo such opposed Kings encampe them still,\nIn man as well as Hearbes, grace and rude will:\nAnd where the worser is predominant,\nFull soone the Canker death eates vp that Plant\nRom. Good morrow Father\nFri. Benedecite.\nWhat early tongue so sweet saluteth me?\nYoung Sonne, it argues a distempered head,\nSo soone to bid goodmorrow to thy bed;\nCare keepes his watch in euery old mans eye,\nAnd where Care lodges, sleepe will neuer lye:\nBut where vnbrused youth with vnstuft braine\nDoth couch his lims, there, golden sleepe doth raigne;\nTherefore thy earlinesse doth me assure,\nThou art vprous'd with some distemprature;\nOr if not so, then here I hit it right.\nOur Romeo hath not beene in bed to night\nRom. That last is true, the sweeter rest was mine\nFri. God pardon sin: wast thou with Rosaline?\nRom. With Rosaline, my ghostly Father? No,\nI haue forgot that name, and that names woe\nFri. That's my good Son, but wher hast thou bin then?\nRom. Ile tell thee ere thou aske it me agen:\nI haue beene feasting with mine enemie,\nWhere on a sudden one hath wounded me,\nThat's by me wounded: both our remedies\nWithin thy helpe and holy phisicke lies:\nI beare no hatred, blessed man: for loe\nMy intercession likewise steads my foe\nFri. Be plaine good Son, rest homely in thy drift,\nRidling confession, findes but ridling shrift\nRom. Then plainly know my hearts deare Loue is set,\nOn the faire daughter of rich Capulet:\nAs mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;\nAnd all combin'd, saue what thou must combine\nBy holy marriage: when and where, and how,\nWe met, we wooed, and made exchange of vow:\nIle tell thee as we passe, but this I pray,\nThat thou consent to marrie vs to day\nFri. Holy S[aint]. Francis, what a change is heere?\nIs Rosaline that thou didst Loue so deare\nSo soone forsaken? young mens Loue then lies\nNot truely in their hearts, but in their eyes.\nIesu Maria, what a deale of brine\nHath washt thy sallow cheekes for Rosaline?\nHow much salt water throwne away in wast,\nTo season Loue that of it doth not tast.\nThe Sun not yet thy sighes, from heauen cleares,\nThy old grones yet ringing in my auncient eares:\nLo here vpon thy cheeke the staine doth sit,\nOf an old teare that is not washt off yet.\nIf ere thou wast thy selfe, and these woes thine,\nThou and these woes, were all for Rosaline.\nAnd art thou chang'd? pronounce this sentence then,\nWomen may fall, when there's no strength in men\nRom. Thou chid'st me oft for louing Rosaline\nFri. For doting, not for louing pupill mine\nRom. And bad'st me bury Loue\nFri. Not in a graue,\nTo lay one in, another out to haue\nRom. I pray thee chide me not, her I Loue now\nDoth grace for grace, and Loue for Loue allow:\nThe other did not so\nFri. O she knew well,\nThy Loue did read by rote, that could not spell:\nBut come young wauerer, come goe with me,\nIn one respect, Ile thy assistant be:\nFor this alliance may so happy proue,\nTo turne your houshould rancor to pure Loue\nRom. O let vs hence, I stand on sudden hast\nFri. Wisely and slow, they stumble that run fast.\nExeunt.\nEnter Benuolio and Mercutio.\nMer. Where the deule should this Romeo be? came he\nnot home to night?\nBen. Not to his Fathers, I spoke with his man\nMer. Why that same pale hard-harted wench, that Rosaline\ntorments him so, that he will sure run mad\nBen. Tibalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, hath sent a Letter\nto his Fathers house\nMer. A challenge on my life\nBen. Romeo will answere it\nMer. Any man that can write, may answere a Letter\nBen. Nay, he will answere the Letters Maister how he\ndares, being dared\nMer. Alas poore Romeo, he is already dead stab'd with\na white wenches blacke eye, runne through the eare with\na Loue song, the very pinne of his heart, cleft with the\nblind Bowe-boyes but-shaft, and is he a man to encounter\nTybalt?\nBen. Why what is Tibalt?\nMer. More then Prince of Cats. Oh hee's the Couragious\nCaptaine of Complements: he fights as you sing\npricksong, keeps time, distance, and proportion, he rests\nhis minum, one, two, and the third in your bosom: the very\nbutcher of a silk button, a Dualist, a Dualist: a Gentleman\nof the very first house of the first and second cause: ah the\nimmortall Passado, the Punto reuerso, the Hay\nBen. The what?\nMer. The Pox of such antique lisping affecting phantacies,\nthese new tuners of accent: Iesu a very good blade,\na very tall man, a very good whore. Why is not this a lamentable\nthing Grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted\nwith these strange flies: these fashion Mongers, these\npardon-mee's,\nwho stand so much on the new form, that they\ncannot sit at ease on the old bench. O their bones, their\nbones.\nEnter Romeo.\nBen. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo\nMer. Without his Roe, like a dryed Hering. O flesh,\nflesh, how art thou fishified? Now is he for the numbers\nthat Petrarch flowed in: Laura to his Lady, was a kitchen\nwench, marrie she had a better Loue to berime her: Dido\na dowdie, Cleopatra a Gipsie, Hellen and Hero, hildings\nand Harlots: Thisbie a gray eie or so, but not to the purpose.\nSignior Romeo, Bon iour, there's a French salutation to your\nFrench slop: you gaue vs the counterfait fairely last\nnight\nRomeo. Good morrow to you both, what counterfeit\ndid I giue you?\nMer. The slip sir, the slip, can you not conceiue?\nRom. Pardon Mercutio, my businesse was great, and in\nsuch a case as mine, a man may straine curtesie\nMer. That's as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains\na man to bow in the hams\nRom. Meaning to cursie\nMer. Thou hast most kindly hit it\nRom. A most curteous exposition\nMer. Nay, I am the very pinck of curtesie\nRom. Pinke for flower\nMer. Right\nRom. Why then is my Pump well flowr'd\nMer. Sure wit, follow me this ieast, now till thou hast\nworne out thy Pump, that when the single sole of it is\nworne, the ieast may remaine after the wearing, sole-singular\nRom. O single sol'd ieast,\nSoly singular for the singlenesse\nMer. Come betweene vs good Benuolio, my wits faints\nRom. Swits and spurs,\nSwits and spurs, or Ile crie a match\nMer. Nay, if our wits run the Wild-Goose chase, I am\ndone: For thou hast more of the Wild-Goose in one of\nthy wits, then I am sure I haue in my whole fiue. Was I\nwith you there for the Goose?\nRom. Thou wast neuer with mee for any thing, when\nthou wast not there for the Goose\nMer. I will bite thee by the eare for that iest\nRom. Nay, good Goose bite not\nMer. Thy wit is a very Bitter-sweeting,\nIt is a most sharpe sawce\nRom. And is it not well seru'd into a Sweet-Goose?\nMer. Oh here's a wit of Cheuerell, that stretches from\nan ynch narrow, to an ell broad\nRom. I stretch it out for that word, broad, which added\nto the Goose, proues thee farre and wide, abroad Goose\nMer. Why is not this better now, then groning for\nLoue, now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo: now art\nthou what thou art, by Art as well as by Nature, for this\ndriueling Loue is like a great Naturall, that runs lolling\nvp and downe to hid his bable in a hole\nBen. Stop there, stop there\nMer. Thou desir'st me to stop in my tale against the haire\nBen. Thou would'st else haue made thy tale large\nMer. O thou art deceiu'd, I would haue made it short,\nor I was come to the whole depth of my tale, and meant\nindeed to occupie the argument no longer.\nEnter Nurse and her man.\nRom. Here's a goodly geare.\nA sayle, a sayle\nMer. Two, two: a Shirt and a Smocke\nNur. Peter?\nPeter. Anon\nNur. My Fan Peter?\nMer. Good Peter to hide her face?\nFor her Fans the fairer face?\nNur. God ye good morrow Gentlemen\nMer. God ye gooden faire Gentlewoman\nNur. Is it gooden?\nMer. 'Tis no lesse I tell you: for the bawdy hand of the\nDyall is now vpon the pricke of Noone\nNur. Out vpon you: what a man are you?\nRom. One Gentlewoman,\nThat God hath made, himselfe to mar\nNur. By my troth it is said, for himselfe to, mar quatha:\nGentlemen, can any of you tel me where I may find\nthe young Romeo?\nRomeo. I can tell you: but young Romeo will be older\nwhen you haue found him, then he was when you sought\nhim: I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse\nNur. You say well\nMer. Yea is the worst well,\nVery well tooke: Ifaith, wisely, wisely\nNur. If you be he sir,\nI desire some confidence with you?\nBen. She will endite him to some Supper\nMer. A baud, a baud, a baud. So ho\nRom. What hast thou found?\nMer. No Hare sir, vnlesse a Hare sir in a Lenten pie,\nthat is something stale and hoare ere it be spent.\nAn old Hare hoare, and an old Hare hoare is very good\nmeat in Lent.\nBut a Hare that is hoare is too much for a score, when it\nhoares ere it be spent,\nRomeo will you come to your Fathers? Weele to dinner\nthither\nRom. I will follow you\nMer. Farewell auncient Lady:\nFarewell Lady, Lady, Lady.\nExit. Mercutio, Benuolio.\nNur. I pray you sir, what sawcie Merchant was this\nthat was so full of his roperie?\nRom. A Gentleman Nurse, that loues to heare himselfe\ntalke, and will speake more in a minute, then he will stand\nto in a Moneth\nNur. And a speake any thing against me, Ile take him\ndowne, z a were lustier then he is, and twentie such Iacks:\nand if I cannot, Ile finde those that shall: scuruie knaue, I\nam none of his flurt-gils, I am none of his skaines mates,\nand thou must stand by too and suffer euery knaue to vse\nme at his pleasure\nPet. I saw no man vse you at his pleasure: if I had, my\nweapon should quickly haue beene out, I warrant you, I\ndare draw assoone as another man, if I see occasion in a\ngood quarrell, and the law on my side\nNur. Now afore God, I am so vext, that euery part about\nme quiuers, skuruy knaue: pray you sir a word: and as I\ntold you, my young Lady bid me enquire you out, what\nshe bid me say, I will keepe to my selfe: but first let me\ntell ye, if ye should leade her in a fooles paradise, as they\nsay, it were a very grosse kind of behauiour, as they say:\nfor the Gentlewoman is yong: & therefore, if you should\ndeale double with her, truely it were an ill thing to be offered\nto any Gentlewoman, and very weake dealing\nNur. Nurse commend me to thy Lady and Mistresse, I\nprotest vnto thee\nNur. Good heart, and yfaith I will tell her as much:\nLord, Lord she will be a ioyfull woman\nRom. What wilt thou tell her Nurse? thou doest not\nmarke me?\nNur. I will tell her sir, that you do protest, which as I\ntake it, is a Gentleman-like offer\nRom. Bid her deuise some meanes to come to shrift this\nafternoone,\nAnd there she shall at Frier Lawrence Cell\nBe shriu'd and married: here is for thy paines\nNur. No truly sir not a penny\nRom. Go too, I say you shall\nNur. This afternoone sir? well she shall be there\nRo. And stay thou good Nurse behind the Abbey wall,\nWithin this houre my man shall be with thee,\nAnd bring thee Cords made like a tackled staire,\nWhich to the high top gallant of my ioy,\nMust be my conuoy in the secret night.\nFarewell, be trustie and Ile quite thy paines:\nFarewell, commend me to thy Mistresse\nNur. Now God in heauen blesse thee: harke you sir,\nRom. What saist thou my deare Nurse?\nNurse. Is your man secret, did you nere heare say two\nmay keepe counsell putting one away\nRo. Warrant thee my man is true as steele\nNur. Well sir, my Mistresse is the sweetest Lady, Lord,\nLord, when 'twas a little prating thing. O there is a Noble\nman in Towne one Paris, that would faine lay knife aboard:\nbut she good soule had as leeue see a Toade, a very\nToade as see him: I anger her sometimes, and tell her that\nParis is the properer man, but Ile warrant you, when I say\nso, shee lookes as pale as any clout in the versall world.\nDoth not Rosemarie and Romeo begin both with a letter?\nRom. I Nurse, what of that? Both with an R\nNur. A mocker that's the dogs name. R. is for the no,\nI know it begins with some other letter, and she hath the\nprettiest sententious of it, of you and Rosemary, that it\nwould do you good to heare it\nRom. Commend me to thy Lady\nNur. I a thousand times. Peter?\nPet. Anon\nNur. Before and apace.\nExit Nurse and Peter.\nEnter Iuliet.\nIul. The clocke strook nine, when I did send the Nurse,\nIn halfe an houre she promised to returne,\nPerchance she cannot meete him: that's not so:\nOh she is lame, Loues Herauld should be thoughts,\nWhich ten times faster glides then the Sunnes beames,\nDriuing backe shadowes ouer lowring hils.\nTherefore do nimble Pinion'd Doues draw Loue,\nAnd therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings:\nNow is the Sun vpon the highmost hill\nOf this daies iourney, and from nine till twelue,\nIs three long houres, yet she is not come.\nHad she affections and warme youthfull blood,\nShe would be as swift in motion as a ball,\nMy words would bandy her to my sweete Loue,\nAnd his to me, but old folkes,\nMany faine as they were dead,\nVnwieldie, slow, heauy, and pale as lead.\nEnter Nurse.\nO God she comes, O hony Nurse what newes?\nHast thou met with him? send thy man away\nNur. Peter stay at the gate\nIul. Now good sweet Nurse:\nO Lord, why lookest thou sad?\nThough newes, be sad, yet tell them merrily.\nIf good thou sham'st the musicke of sweet newes,\nBy playing it to me, with so sower a face\nNur. I am a weary, giue me leaue awhile,\nFie how my bones ake, what a iaunt haue I had?\nIul. I would thou had'st my bones, and I thy newes:\nNay come I pray thee speake, good good Nurse speake\nNur. Iesu what hast? can you not stay a while?\nDo you not see that I am out of breath?\nIul. How art thou out of breath, when thou hast breth\nTo say to me, that thou art out of breath?\nThe excuse that thou dost make in this delay,\nIs longer then the tale thou dost excuse.\nIs thy newes good or bad? answere to that,\nSay either, and Ile stay the circumstance:\nLet me be satisfied, ist good or bad?\nNur. Well, you haue made a simple choice, you know\nnot how to chuse a man: Romeo, no not he though his face\nbe better then any mans, yet his legs excels all mens, and\nfor a hand, and a foote, and a body, though they be not to\nbe talkt on, yet they are past compare: he is not the flower\nof curtesie, but Ile warrant him as gentle a Lambe: go thy\nwaies wench, serue God. What haue you din'd at home?\nIul. No no: but all this did I know before\nWhat saies he of our marriage? what of that?\nNur. Lord how my head akes, what a head haue I?\nIt beates as it would fall in twenty peeces.\nMy backe a tother side: o my backe, my backe:\nBeshrew your heart for sending me about\nTo catch my death with iaunting vp and downe\nIul. Ifaith: I am sorrie that thou art so well.\nSweet sweet, sweet Nurse, tell me what saies my Loue?\nNur. Your Loue saies like an honest Gentleman,\nAnd a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome,\nAnd I warrant a vertuous: where is your Mother?\nIul. Where is my Mother?\nWhy she is within, where should she be?\nHow odly thou repli'st:\nYour Loue saies like an honest Gentleman:\nWhere is your Mother?\nNur. O Gods Lady deare,\nAre you so hot? marrie come vp I trow,\nIs this the Poultis for my aking bones?\nHenceforward do your messages your selfe\nIul. Heere's such a coile, come what saies Romeo?\nNur. Haue you got leaue to go to shift to day?\nIul. I haue\nNur. Then high you hence to Frier Lawrence Cell,\nThere staies a Husband to make you a wife:\nNow comes the wanton bloud vp in your cheekes,\nThei'le be in Scarlet straight at any newes:\nHie you to Church, I must an other way,\nTo fetch a Ladder by the which your Loue\nMust climde a birds nest Soone when it is darke:\nI am the drudge, and toile in your delight:\nBut you shall beare the burthen soone at night.\nGo Ile to dinner, hie you to the Cell\nIul. Hie to high Fortune, honest Nurse, farewell.\nExeunt.\nEnter Frier and Romeo.\nFri. So smile the heauens vpon this holy act,\nThat after houres, with sorrow chide vs not\nRom. Amen, amen, but come what sorrow can,\nIt cannot counteruaile the exchange of ioy\nThat one short minute giues me in her sight:\nDo thou but close our hands with holy words.\nThen Loue-deuouring death do what he dare,\nIt is inough. I may call her mine\nFri. These violent delights haue violent endes,\nAnd in their triumph: die like fire and powder;\nWhich as they kisse consume. The sweetest honey\nIs loathsome in his owne deliciousnesse,\nAnd in the taste confoundes the appetite.\nTherefore Loue moderately, long Loue doth so,\nToo swift arriues as tardie as too slow.\nEnter Iuliet.\nHere comes the Lady. Oh so light a foot\nWill nere weare out the euerlasting flint,\nA Louer may bestride the Gossamours,\nThat ydles in the wanton Summer ayre,\nAnd yet not fall, so light is vanitie\nIul. Good euen to my ghostly Confessor\nFri. Romeo shall thanke thee Daughter for vs both\nIul. As much to him, else in his thanks too much\nFri. Ah Iuliet, if the measure of thy ioy\nBe heapt like mine, and that thy skill be more\nTo blason it, then sweeten with thy breath\nThis neighbour ayre, and let rich musickes tongue,\nVnfold the imagin'd happinesse that both\nReceiue in either, by this deere encounter\nIul. Conceit more rich in matter then in words,\nBrags of his substance, not of Ornament:\nThey are but beggers that can count their worth,\nBut my true Loue is growne to such excesse,\nI cannot sum vp some of halfe my wealth\nFri. Come, come with me, & we will make short worke,\nFor by your leaues, you shall not stay alone,\nTill holy Church incorporate two in one.\nEnter Mercutio, Benuolio, and men.\nBen. I pray thee good Mercutio lets retire,\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad:\nAnd if we meet, we shal not scape a brawle, for now these\nhot dayes, is the mad blood stirring\nMer. Thou art like one of these fellowes, that when he\nenters the confines of a Tauerne, claps me his Sword vpon\nthe Table, and sayes, God send me no need of thee: and by\nthe operation of the second cup, drawes him on the Drawer,\nwhen indeed there is no need\nBen. Am I like such a Fellow?\nMer. Come, come, thou art as hot a Iacke in thy mood,\nas any in Italie: and assoone moued to be moodie, and assoone\nmoodie to be mou'd\nBen. And what too?\nMer. Nay, and there were two such, we should haue\nnone shortly, for one would kill the other: thou, why thou\nwilt quarrell with a man that hath a haire more, or a haire\nlesse in his beard, then thou hast: thou wilt quarrell with a\nman for cracking Nuts, hauing no other reason, but because\nthou hast hasell eyes: what eye, but such an eye,\nwould spie out such a quarrell? thy head is full of quarrels,\nas an egge is full of meat, and yet thy head hath bin\nbeaten as addle as an egge for quarreling: thou hast quarrel'd\nwith a man for coffing in the street, because he hath\nwakened thy Dog that hath laine asleepe in the Sun. Did'st\nthou not fall out with a Tailor for wearing his new Doublet\nbefore Easter? with another, for tying his new shooes\nwith old Riband, and yet thou wilt Tutor me from quarrelling?\nBen. And I were so apt to quarell as thou art, any man\nshould buy the Fee-simple of my life, for an houre and a\nquarter\nMer. The Fee-simple? O simple.\nEnter Tybalt, Petruchio, and others.\nBen. By my head here comes the Capulets\nMer. By my heele I care not\nTyb. Follow me close, for I will speake to them.\nGentlemen, Good den, a word with one of you\nMer. And but one word with one of vs? couple it with\nsomething, make it a word and a blow\nTib. You shall find me apt inough to that sir, and you\nwill giue me occasion\nMercu. Could you not take some occasion without\ngiuing?\nTib. Mercutio thou consort'st with Romeo\nMer. Consort? what dost thou make vs Minstrels? &\nthou make Minstrels of vs, looke to heare nothing but discords:\nheere's my fiddlesticke, heere's that shall make you\ndaunce. Come consort\nBen. We talke here in the publike haunt of men,\nEither withdraw vnto some priuate place,\nOr reason coldly of your greeuances:\nOr else depart, here all eies gaze on vs\nMer. Mens eyes were made to looke, and let them gaze.\nI will not budge for no mans pleasure I.\nEnter Romeo.\nTib. Well peace be with you sir, here comes my man\nMer. But Ile be hang'd sir if he weare your Liuery.\nMarry go before to field, heele be your follower,\nYour worship in that sense, may call him man\nTib. Romeo, the loue I beare thee, can affoord\nNo better terme then this: Thou art a Villaine\nRom. Tibalt, the reason that I haue to loue thee,\nDoth much excuse the appertaining rage\nTo such a greeting: Villaine am I none;\nTherefore farewell, I see thou know'st me not\nTib. Boy, this shall not excuse the iniuries\nThat thou hast done me, therefore turne and draw\nRom. I do protest I neuer iniur'd thee,\nBut lou'd thee better then thou can'st deuise:\nTill thou shalt know the reason of my loue,\nAnd so good Capulet, which name I tender\nAs dearely as my owne, be satisfied\nMer. O calme, dishonourable, vile submission:\nAlla stucatho carries it away.\nTybalt, you Rat-catcher, will you walke?\nTib. What wouldst thou haue with me?\nMer. Good King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine\nliues, that I meane to make bold withall, and as you shall\nvse me hereafter dry beate the rest of the eight. Will you\npluck your Sword out of his Pilcher by the eares? Make\nhast, least mine be about your eares ere it be out\nTib. I am for you\nRom. Gentle Mercutio, put thy Rapier vp\nMer. Come sir, your Passado\nRom. Draw Benuolio, beat downe their weapons:\nGentlemen, for shame forbeare this outrage,\nTibalt, Mercutio, the Prince expresly hath\nForbidden bandying in Verona streetes.\nHold Tybalt, good Mercutio.\nExit Tybalt.\nMer. I am hurt.\nA plague a both the Houses, I am sped:\nIs he gone and hath nothing?\nBen. What art thou hurt?\nMer. I, I, a scratch, a scratch, marry 'tis inough,\nWhere is my Page? go Villaine fetch a Surgeon\nRom. Courage man, the hurt cannot be much\nMer. No: 'tis not so deepe as a well, nor so wide as a\nChurch doore, but 'tis inough, 'twill serue: aske for me to\nmorrow, and you shall find me a graue man. I am pepper'd\nI warrant, for this world: a plague a both your houses.\nWhat, a Dog, a Rat, a Mouse, a Cat to scratch a man to\ndeath: a Braggart, a Rogue, a Villaine, that fights by the\nbooke of Arithmeticke, why the deu'le came you betweene\nvs? I was hurt vnder your arme\nRom. I thought all for the best\nMer. Helpe me into some house Benuolio,\nOr I shall faint: a plague a both your houses.\nThey haue made wormesmeat of me,\nI haue it, and soundly to your Houses.\nEnter.\nRom. This Gentleman the Princes neere Alie,\nMy very Friend hath got his mortall hurt\nIn my behalfe, my reputation stain'd\nWith Tibalts slaunder, Tybalt that an houre\nHath beene my Cozin: O Sweet Iuliet,\nThy Beauty hath made me Effeminate,\nAnd in my temper softned Valours steele.\nEnter Benuolio.\nBen. O Romeo, Romeo, braue Mercutio's is dead,\nThat Gallant spirit hath aspir'd the Cloudes,\nWhich too vntimely here did scorne the earth\nRom. This daies blacke Fate, on mo daies depend,\nThis but begins, the wo others must end.\nEnter Tybalt.\nBen. Here comes the Furious Tybalt backe againe\nRom. He gon in triumph, and Mercutio slaine?\nAway to heauen respectiue Lenitie,\nAnd fire and Fury, be my conduct now.\nNow Tybalt take the Villaine backe againe\nThat late thou gau'st me, for Mercutios soule\nIs but a little way aboue our heads,\nStaying for thine to keepe him companie:\nEither thou or I, or both, must goe with him\nTib. Thou wretched Boy that didst consort him here,\nShalt with him hence\nRom. This shall determine that.\nThey fight. Tybalt falles.\nBen. Romeo, away be gone:\nThe Citizens are vp, and Tybalt slaine,\nStand not amaz'd, the Prince will Doome thee death\nIf thou art taken: hence, be gone, away\nRom. O! I am Fortunes foole\nBen. Why dost thou stay?\nExit Romeo.\nEnter Citizens.\nCiti. Which way ran he that kild Mercutio?\nTibalt that Murtherer, which way ran he?\nBen. There lies that Tybalt\nCiti. Vp sir go with me:\nI charge thee in the Princes names obey.\nEnter Prince, old Montague, Capulet, their Wiues and all.\nPrin. Where are the vile beginners of this Fray?\nBen. O Noble Prince, I can discouer all\nThe vnluckie Mannage of this fatall brall:\nThere lies the man slaine by young Romeo,\nThat slew thy kinsman braue Mercutio\nCap. Wi. Tybalt, my Cozin? O my Brothers Child,\nO Prince, O Cozin, Husband, O the blood is spild\nOf my deare kinsman. Prince as thou art true,\nFor bloud of ours, shed bloud of Mountague.\nO Cozin, Cozin\nPrin. Benuolio, who began this Fray?\nBen. Tybalt here slaine, whom Romeo's hand did slay,\nRomeo that spoke him faire, bid him bethinke\nHow nice the Quarrell was, and vrg'd withall\nYour high displeasure: all this vttered,\nWith gentle breath, calme looke, knees humbly bow'd\nCould not take truce with the vnruly spleene\nOf Tybalts deafe to peace, but that he Tilts\nWith Peircing steele at bold Mercutio's breast,\nWho all as hot, turnes deadly point to point,\nAnd with a Martiall scorne, with one hand beates\nCold death aside, and with the other sends\nIt back to Tybalt, whose dexterity\nRetorts it: Romeo he cries aloud,\nHold Friends, Friends part, and swifter then his tongue,\nHis aged arme, beats downe their fatall points,\nAnd twixt them rushes, vnderneath whose arme,\nAn enuious thrust from Tybalt, hit the life\nOf stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled.\nBut by and by comes backe to Romeo,\nWho had but newly entertained Reuenge,\nAnd too't they goe like lightning, for ere I\nCould draw to part them, was stout Tybalt slaine:\nAnd as he fell, did Romeo turne and flie:\nThis is the truth, or let Benuolio die\nCap. Wi. He is a kinsman to the Mountague,\nAffection makes him false, he speakes not true:\nSome twenty of them fought in this blacke strife,\nAnd all those twenty could but kill one life.\nI beg for Iustice, which thou Prince must giue:\nRomeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not liue\nPrin. Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio,\nWho now the price of his deare blood doth owe\nCap. Not Romeo Prince, he was Mercutios Friend,\nHis fault concludes, but what the law should end,\nThe life of Tybalt\nPrin. And for that offence,\nImmediately we doe exile him hence:\nI haue an interest in your hearts proceeding:\nMy bloud for your rude brawles doth lie a bleeding.\nBut Ile Amerce you with so strong a fine,\nThat you shall all repent the losse of mine.\nIt will be deafe to pleading and excuses,\nNor teares, nor prayers shall purchase our abuses.\nTherefore vse none, let Romeo hence in hast,\nElse when he is found, that houre is his last.\nBeare hence his body, and attend our will:\nMercy not Murders, pardoning those that kill.\nExeunt.\nEnter Iuliet alone.\nIul. Gallop apace, you fiery footed steedes,\nTowards Phoebus lodging, such a Wagoner\nAs Phaeton would whip you to the west,\nAnd bring in Cloudie night immediately.\nSpred thy close Curtaine Loue-performing night,\nThat run-awayes eyes may wincke, and Romeo\nLeape to these armes, vntalkt of and vnseene,\nLouers can see to doe their Amorous rights,\nAnd by their owne Beauties: or if Loue be blind,\nIt best agrees with night: come ciuill night,\nThou sober suted Matron all in blacke,\nAnd learne me how to loose a winning match,\nPlaid for a paire of stainlesse Maidenhoods,\nHood my vnman'd blood bayting in my Cheekes,\nWith thy Blacke mantle, till strange Loue grow bold,\nThinke true Loue acted simple modestie:\nCome night, come Romeo, come thou day in night,\nFor thou wilt lie vpon the wings of night\nWhiter then new Snow vpon a Rauens backe:\nCome gentle night, come louing blackebrow'd night.\nGiue me my Romeo, and when I shall die,\nTake him and cut him out in little starres,\nAnd he will make the Face of heauen so fine,\nThat all the world will be in Loue with night,\nAnd pay no worship to the Garish Sun.\nO I haue bought the Mansion of a Loue,\nBut not possest it, and though I am sold,\nNot yet enioy'd, so tedious is this day,\nAs is the night before some Festiuall,\nTo an impatient child that hath new robes\nAnd may not weare them, O here comes my Nurse:\nEnter Nurse with cords.\nAnd she brings newes and euery tongue that speaks\nBut Romeos name, speakes heauenly eloquence:\nNow Nurse, what newes? what hast thou there?\nThe Cords that Romeo bid thee fetch?\nNur. I, I, the Cords\nIuli. Ay me, what newes?\nWhy dost thou wring thy hands\nNur. A weladay, hee's dead, hee's dead,\nWe are vndone Lady, we are vndone.\nAlacke the day, hee's gone, hee's kil'd, he's dead\nIul. Can heauen be so enuious?\nNur. Romeo can,\nThough heauen cannot. O Romeo, Romeo.\nWho euer would haue thought it Romeo\nIuli. What diuell art thou,\nThat dost torment me thus?\nThis torture should be roar'd in dismall hell,\nHath Romeo slaine himselfe? say thou but I,\nAnd that bare vowell I shall poyson more\nThen the death-darting eye of Cockatrice,\nI am not I, if there be such an I.\nOr those eyes shot, that makes thee answere I:\nIf he be slaine say I, or if not, no.\nBriefe, sounds, determine of my weale or wo\nNur. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,\nGod saue the marke, here on his manly brest,\nA pitteous Coarse, a bloody piteous Coarse:\nPale, pale as ashes, all bedawb'd in blood,\nAll in gore blood I sounded at the sight\nIul. O breake my heart,\nPoore Banckrout breake at once,\nTo prison eyes, nere looke on libertie.\nVile earth to earth resigne, end motion here,\nAnd thou and Romeo presse on heauie beere\nNur. O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best Friend I had:\nO curteous Tybalt honest Gentleman,\nThat euer I should liue to see thee dead\nIul. What storme is this that blowes so contrarie?\nIs Romeo slaughtred? and is Tybalt dead?\nMy dearest Cozen, and my dearer Lord:\nThen dreadfull Trumpet sound the generall doome,\nFor who is liuing, if those two are gone?\nNur. Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished,\nRomeo that kil'd him, he is banished\nIul. O God!\nDid Romeo's hand shed Tybalts blood\nIt did, it did, alas the day, it did\nNur. O Serpent heart hid with a flowring face\nIul. Did euer Dragon keepe so faire a Caue?\nBeautifull Tyrant, fiend Angelicall:\nRauenous Doue-feather'd Rauen,\nWoluish-rauening Lambe,\nDispised substance of Diuinest show:\nIust opposite to what thou iustly seem'st,\nA dimne Saint, an Honourable Villaine:\nO Nature! what had'st thou to doe in hell,\nWhen thou did'st bower the spirit of a fiend\nIn mortall paradise of such sweet flesh?\nWas euer booke containing such vile matter\nSo fairely bound? O that deceit should dwell\nIn such a gorgeous Pallace\nNur. There's no trust, no faith, no honestie in men,\nAll periur'd, all forsworne, all naught, all dissemblers,\nAh where's my man? giue me some Aqua-vitae?\nThese griefes, these woes, these sorrowes make me old:\nShame come to Romeo\nIul. Blister'd be thy tongue\nFor such a wish, he was not borne to shame:\nVpon his brow shame is asham'd to sit;\nFor 'tis a throane where Honour may be Crown'd\nSole Monarch of the vniuersall earth:\nO what a beast was I to chide him?\nNur. Will you speake well of him,\nThat kil'd your Cozen?\nIul. Shall I speake ill of him that is my husband?\nAh poore my Lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,\nWhen I thy three houres wife haue mangled it.\nBut wherefore Villaine did'st thou kill my Cozin?\nThat Villaine Cozin would haue kil'd my husband:\nBacke foolish teares, backe to your natiue spring,\nYour tributarie drops belong to woe,\nWhich you mistaking offer vp to ioy:\nMy husband liues that Tibalt would haue slaine,\nAnd Tibalt dead that would haue slaine my husband:\nAll this is comfort, wherefore weepe I then?\nSome words there was worser then Tybalts death\nThat murdered me, I would forget it feine,\nBut oh, it presses to my memory,\nLike damned guilty deedes to sinners minds,\nTybalt is dead and Romeo banished:\nThat banished, that one word banished,\nHath slaine ten thousand Tibalts: Tibalts death\nWas woe inough if it had ended there:\nOr if sower woe delights in fellowship,\nAnd needly will be rankt with other griefes,\nWhy followed not when she said Tibalts dead,\nThy Father or thy Mother, nay or both,\nWhich moderne lamentation might haue mou'd.\nBut which a rere-ward following Tybalts death\nRomeo is banished to speake that word,\nIs Father, Mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Iuliet,\nAll slaine, all dead: Romeo is banished,\nThere is no end, no limit, measure, bound,\nIn that words death, no words can that woe sound.\nWhere is my Father and my Mother Nurse?\nNur. Weeping and wailing ouer Tybalts Coarse,\nWill you go to them? I will bring you thither\nIu. Wash they his wounds with tears: mine shal be spent\nWhen theirs are drie for Romeo's banishment.\nTake vp those Cordes, poore ropes you are beguil'd,\nBoth you and I for Romeo is exild:\nHe made you for a high-way to my bed,\nBut I a Maid, die Maiden widowed.\nCome Cord, come Nurse, Ile to my wedding bed,\nAnd death not Romeo, take my Maiden head\nNur. Hie to your Chamber, Ile find Romeo\nTo comfort you, I wot well where he is:\nHarke ye your Romeo will be heere at night,\nIle to him, he is hid at Lawrence Cell\nIul. O find him, giue this Ring to my true Knight,\nAnd bid him come, to take his last farewell.\nExit\nEnter Frier and Romeo.\nFri. Romeo come forth,\nCome forth thou fearfull man,\nAffliction is enamor'd of thy parts\nAnd thou art wedded to calamitie,\nRom. Father what newes?\nWhat is the Princes Doome?\nWhat sorrow craues acquaintance at my hand,\nThat I yet know not?\nFri. Too familiar\nIs my deare Sonne with such sowre Company\nI bring thee tydings of the Princes Doome\nRom. What lesse then Doomesday,\nIs the Princes Doome?\nFri. A gentler iudgement vanisht from his lips,\nNot bodies death, but bodies banishment\nRom. Ha, banishment? be mercifull, say death:\nFor exile hath more terror in his looke,\nMuch more then death: do not say banishment\nFri. Here from Verona art thou banished:\nBe patient, for the world is broad and wide\nRom. There is no world without Verona walles,\nBut Purgatorie, Torture, hell it selfe:\nHence banished, is banisht from the world,\nAnd worlds exile is death. Then banished,\nIs death, mistearm'd, calling death banished,\nThou cut'st my head off with a golden Axe,\nAnd smilest vpon the stroke that murders me\nFri. O deadly sin, O rude vnthankefulnesse!\nThy falt our Law calles death, but the kind Prince\nTaking thy part, hath rusht aside the Law,\nAnd turn'd that blacke word death, to banishment.\nThis is deare mercy, and thou seest it not\nRom. 'Tis Torture and not mercy, heauen is here\nWhere Iuliet liues, and euery Cat and Dog,\nAnd little Mouse, euery vnworthy thing\nLiue here in Heauen and may looke on her,\nBut Romeo may not. More Validitie,\nMore Honourable state, more Courtship liues\nIn carrion Flies, then Romeo: they may seaze\nOn the white wonder of deare Iuliets hand,\nAnd steale immortall blessing from her lips,\nWho euen in pure and vestall modestie\nStill blush, as thinking their owne kisses sin.\nThis may Flies doe, when I from this must flie,\nAnd saist thou yet, that exile is not death?\nBut Romeo may not, hee is banished.\nHad'st thou no poyson mixt, no sharpe ground knife,\nNo sudden meane of death, though nere so meane,\nBut banished to kill me? Banished?\nO Frier, the damned vse that word in hell:\nHowlings attends it, how hast then the hart\nBeing a Diuine, a Ghostly Confessor,\nA Sin-Absoluer, and my Friend profest:\nTo mangle me with that word, banished?\nFri. Then fond Mad man, heare me speake\nRom. O thou wilt speake againe of banishment\nFri. Ile giue thee Armour to keepe off that word,\nAduersities sweete milke, Philosophie,\nTo comfort thee, though thou art banished\nRom. Yet banished? hang vp Philosophie:\nVnlesse Philosophie can make a Iuliet,\nDisplant a Towne, reuerse a Princes Doome,\nIt helpes not, it preuailes not, talke no more\nFri. O then I see, that Mad men haue no eares\nRom. How should they,\nWhen wisemen haue no eyes?\nFri. Let me dispaire with thee of thy estate,\nRom. Thou can'st not speake of that y dost not feele,\nWert thou as young as Iuliet my Loue:\nAn houre but married, Tybalt murdered,\nDoting like me, and like me banished,\nThen mightest thou speake,\nThen mightest thou teare thy hayre,\nAnd fall vpon the ground as I doe now,\nTaking the measure of an vnmade graue.\nEnter Nurse, and knockes.\nFrier. Arise one knockes,\nGood Romeo hide thy selfe\nRom. Not I,\nVnlesse the breath of Hartsicke groanes\nMist-like infold me from the search of eyes.\nKnocke\nFri. Harke how they knocke:\n(Who's there) Romeo arise,\nThou wilt be taken, stay a while, stand vp:\nKnocke.\nRun to my study: by and by, Gods will\nWhat simplenesse is this: I come, I come.\nKnocke.\nWho knocks so hard?\nWhence come you? what's your will?\nEnter Nurse.\nNur. Let me come in,\nAnd you shall know my errand:\nI come from Lady Iuliet\nFri. Welcome then\nNur. O holy Frier, O tell me holy Frier,\nWhere's my Ladies Lord? where's Romeo?\nFri. There on the ground,\nWith his owne teares made drunke\nNur. O he is euen in my Mistresse case,\nIust in her case. O wofull simpathy:\nPittious predicament, euen so lies she,\nBlubbring and weeping, weeping and blubbring,\nStand vp, stand vp, stand and you be a man,\nFor Iuliets sake, for her sake rise and stand:\nWhy should you fall into so deepe an O\nRom. Nurse\nNur. Ah sir, ah sir, deaths the end of all\nRom. Speak'st thou of Iuliet? how is it with her?\nDoth not she thinke me an old Murtherer,\nNow I haue stain'd the Childhood of our ioy,\nWith blood remoued, but little from her owne?\nWhere is she? and how doth she? and what sayes\nMy conceal'd Lady to our conceal'd Loue?\nNur. Oh she sayes nothing sir, but weeps and weeps,\nAnd now fals on her bed, and then starts vp,\nAnd Tybalt calls, and then on Romeo cries,\nAnd then downe falls againe\nRo. As if that name shot from the dead leuell of a Gun,\nDid murder her, as that names cursed hand\nMurdred her kinsman. Oh tell me Frier, tell me,\nIn what vile part of this Anatomie\nDoth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sacke\nThe hatefull Mansion\nFri. Hold thy desperate hand:\nArt thou a man? thy forme cries out thou art:\nThy teares are womanish, thy wild acts denote\nThe vnreasonable Furie of a beast.\nVnseemely woman, in a seeming man,\nAnd ill beseeming beast in seeming both,\nThou hast amaz'd me. By my holy order,\nI thought thy disposition better temper'd.\nHast thou slaine Tybalt? wilt thou slay thy selfe?\nAnd slay thy Lady, that in thy life lies,\nBy doing damned hate vpon thy selfe?\nWhy rayl'st thou on thy birth? the heauen and earth?\nSince birth, and heauen and earth, all three do meete\nIn thee at once, which thou at once would'st loose.\nFie, fie, thou sham'st thy shape, thy loue, thy wit,\nWhich like a Vsurer abound'st in all:\nAnd vsest none in that true vse indeed,\nWhich should bedecke thy shape, thy loue, thy wit:\nThy Noble shape, is but a forme of waxe,\nDigressing from the Valour of a man,\nThy deare Loue sworne but hollow periurie,\nKilling that Loue which thou hast vow'd to cherish.\nThy wit, that Ornament, to shape and Loue,\nMishapen in the conduct of them both:\nLike powder in a skillesse Souldiers flaske,\nIs set a fire by thine owne ignorance,\nAnd thou dismembred with thine owne defence.\nWhat, rowse thee man, thy Iuliet is aliue,\nFor whose deare sake thou wast but lately dead.\nThere art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee,\nBut thou slew'st Tybalt, there art thou happie.\nThe law that threatned death became thy Friend.\nAnd turn'd it to exile, there art thou happy.\nA packe or blessing light vpon thy backe,\nHappinesse Courts thee in her best array,\nBut like a mishaped and sullen wench,\nThou puttest vp thy Fortune and thy Loue:\nTake heed, take heed, for such die miserable.\nGoe get thee to thy Loue as was decreed,\nAscend her Chamber, hence and comfort her:\nBut looke thou stay not till the watch be set,\nFor then thou canst not passe to Mantua,\nWhere thou shalt liue till we can finde a time\nTo blaze your marriage, reconcile your Friends,\nBeg pardon of thy Prince, and call thee backe,\nWith twenty hundred thousand times more ioy\nThen thou went'st forth in lamentation.\nGoe before Nurse, commend me to thy Lady,\nAnd bid her hasten all the house to bed,\nWhich heauy sorrow makes them apt vnto.\nRomeo is comming\nNur. O Lord, I could haue staid here all night,\nTo heare good counsell: oh what learning is!\nMy Lord Ile tell my Lady you will come\nRom. Do so, and bid my Sweete prepare to chide\nNur. Heere sir, a Ring she bid me giue you sir:\nHie you, make hast, for it growes very late\nRom. How well my comfort is reuiu'd by this\nFri. Go hence,\nGoodnight, and here stands all your state:\nEither be gone before the watch be set,\nOr by the breake of day disguis'd from hence,\nSoiourne in Mantua, Ile find out your man,\nAnd he shall signifie from time to time,\nEuery good hap to you, that chaunces heere:\nGiue me thy hand, 'tis late, farewell, goodnight\nRom. But that a ioy past ioy, calls out on me,\nIt were a griefe, so briefe to part with thee:\nFarewell.\nExeunt.\nEnter old Capulet, his Wife and Paris.\nCap. Things haue falne out sir so vnluckily,\nThat we haue had no time to moue our Daughter:\nLooke you, she Lou'd her kinsman Tybalt dearely,\nAnd so did I. Well, we were borne to die.\n'Tis very late, she'l not come downe to night:\nI promise you, but for your company,\nI would haue bin a bed an houre ago\nPar. These times of wo, affoord no times to wooe:\nMadam goodnight, commend me to your Daughter\nLady. I will, and know her mind early to morrow,\nTo night, she is mewed vp to her heauinesse\nCap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender\nOf my Childes loue: I thinke she will be rul'd\nIn all respects by me: nay more, I doubt it not.\nWife, go you to her ere you go to bed,\nAcquaint her here, of my Sonne Paris Loue,\nAnd bid her, marke you me, on Wendsday next,\nBut soft, what day is this?\nPar. Monday my Lord\nCap. Monday, ha ha: well Wendsday is too soone,\nA Thursday let it be: a Thursday tell her,\nShe shall be married to this Noble Earle:\nWill you be ready? do you like this hast?\nWeele keepe no great adoe, a Friend or two,\nFor harke you, Tybalt being slaine so late,\nIt may be thought we held him carelesly,\nBeing our kinsman, if we reuell much:\nTherefore weele haue some halfe a dozen Friends,\nAnd there an end. But what say you to Thursday?\nParis. My Lord,\nI would that Thursday were to morrow\nCap. Well, get you gone, a Thursday, be it then:\nGo you to Iuliet ere you go to bed,\nPrepare her wife, against this wedding day.\nFarewell my Lord, light to my Chamber hoa,\nAfore me, it is so late, that we may call it early by and by,\nGoodnight.\nExeunt.\nEnter Romeo and Iuliet aloft.\nIul. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet neere day:\nIt was the Nightingale, and not the Larke,\nThat pier'st the fearefull hollow of thine eare,\nNightly she sings on yond Pomgranet tree,\nBeleeue me Loue, it was the Nightingale\nRom. It was the Larke the Herauld of the Morne:\nNo Nightingale: looke Loue what enuious streakes\nDo lace the seuering Cloudes in yonder East:\nNights Candles are burnt out, and Iocond day\nStands tipto on the mistie Mountaines tops,\nI must be gone and liue, or stay and die\nIul. Yond light is not daylight, I know it I:\nIt is some Meteor that the Sun exhales,\nTo be to thee this night a Torch-bearer,\nAnd light thee on thy way to Mantua.\nTherefore stay yet, thou need'st not be gone,\nRom. Let me be tane, let me be put to death,\nI am content, so thou wilt haue it so.\nIle say yon gray is not the mornings eye,\n'Tis but the pale reflexe of Cinthias brow.\nNor that is not Larke whose noates do beate\nThe vaulty heauen so high aboue our heads,\nI haue more care to stay, then will to go:\nCome death and welcome, Iuliet wills it so.\nHow ist my soule, lets talke, it is not day\nIuli. It is, it is, hie hence be gone away:\nIt is the Larke that sings so out of tune,\nStraining harsh Discords, and vnpleasing Sharpes.\nSome say the Larke makes sweete Diuision;\nThis doth not so: for she diuideth vs.\nSome say, the Larke and loathed Toad change eyes,\nO now I would they had chang'd voyces too:\nSince arme from arme that voyce doth vs affray,\nHunting thee hence, with Hunts-vp to the day,\nO now be gone, more light and it light growes\nRom. More light & light, more darke & darke our woes.\nEnter Madam and Nurse.\nNur. Madam\nIul. Nurse\nNur. Your Lady Mother is comming to your chamber,\nThe day is broke, be wary, looke about\nIul. Then window let day in, and let life out\nRom. Farewell, farewell, one kisse and Ile descend\nIul. Art thou gone so? Loue, Lord, ay Husband, Friend,\nI must heare from thee euery day in the houre,\nFor in a minute there are many dayes,\nO by this count I shall be much in yeares,\nEre I againe behold my Romeo\nRom. Farewell:\nI will omit no oportunitie,\nThat may conuey my greetings Loue, to thee\nIul. O thinkest thou we shall euer meet againe?\nRom. I doubt it not, and all these woes shall serue\nFor sweet discourses in our time to come\nIuliet. O God! I haue an ill Diuining soule,\nMe thinkes I see thee now, thou art so lowe,\nAs one dead in the bottome of a Tombe,\nEither my eye-sight failes, or thou look'st pale\nRom. And trust me Loue, in my eye so do you:\nDrie sorrow drinkes our blood. Adue, adue.\nEnter.\nIul. O Fortune, Fortune, all men call thee fickle,\nIf thou art fickle, what dost thou with him\nThat is renown'd for faith? be fickle Fortune:\nFor then I hope thou wilt not keepe him long,\nBut send him backe.\nEnter Mother.\nLad. Ho Daughter, are you vp?\nIul. Who ist that calls? Is it my Lady Mother.\nIs she not downe so late, or vp so early?\nWhat vnaccustom'd cause procures her hither?\nLad. Why how now Iuliet?\nIul. Madam I am not well\nLad. Euermore weeping for your Cozins death?\nWhat wilt thou wash him from his graue with teares?\nAnd if thou could'st, thou could'st not make him liue:\nTherefore haue done, some griefe shewes much of Loue,\nBut much of griefe, shewes still some want of wit\nIul. Yet let me weepe, for such a feeling losse\nLad. So shall you feele the losse, but not the Friend\nWhich you weepe for\nIul. Feeling so the losse,\nI cannot chuse but euer weepe the Friend\nLa. Well Girle, thou weep'st not so much for his death,\nAs that the Villaine liues which slaughter'd him\nIul. What Villaine, Madam?\nLad. That same Villaine Romeo\nIul. Villaine and he, be many miles assunder:\nGod pardon, I doe with all my heart:\nAnd yet no man like he, doth grieue my heart\nLad. That is because the Traitor liues\nIul. I Madam from the reach of these my hands:\nWould none but I might venge my Cozins death\nLad. We will haue vengeance for it, feare thou not.\nThen weepe no more, Ile send to one in Mantua,\nWhere that same banisht Run-agate doth liue,\nShall giue him such an vnaccustom'd dram,\nThat he shall soone keepe Tybalt company:\nAnd then I hope thou wilt be satisfied\nIul. Indeed I neuer shall be satisfied\nWith Romeo, till I behold him. Dead\nIs my poore heart so for a kinsman vext:\nMadam, if you could find out but a man\nTo beare a poyson, I would temper it;\nThat Romeo should vpon receit thereof,\nSoone sleepe in quiet. O how my heart abhors\nTo heare him nam'd, and cannot come to him,\nTo wreake the Loue I bore my Cozin,\nVpon his body that hath slaughter'd him\nMo. Find thou the meanes, and Ile find such a man.\nBut now Ile tell thee ioyfull tidings Gyrle\nIul. And ioy comes well, in such a needy time,\nWhat are they, beseech your Ladyship?\nMo. Well, well, thou hast a carefull Father Child?\nOne who to put thee from thy heauinesse,\nHath sorted out a sudden day of ioy,\nThat thou expects not, nor I lookt not for\nIul. Madam in happy time, what day is this?\nMo. Marry my Child, early next Thursday morne,\nThe gallant, young, and Noble Gentleman,\nThe Countie Paris at Saint Peters Church,\nShall happily make thee a ioyfull Bride\nIul. Now by Saint Peters Church, and Peter too,\nHe shall not make me there a ioyfull Bride.\nI wonder at this hast, that I must wed\nEre he that should be Husband comes to woe:\nI pray you tell my Lord and Father Madam,\nI will not marrie yet, and when I doe, I sweare\nIt shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate\nRather then Paris. These are newes indeed\nMo. Here comes your Father, tell him so your selfe,\nAnd see how he will take it at your hands.\nEnter Capulet and Nurse.\nCap. When the Sun sets, the earth doth drizzle deaw\nBut for the Sunset of my Brothers Sonne,\nIt raines downright.\nHow now? A Conduit Gyrle, what still in teares?\nEuermore showring in one little body?\nThou counterfaits a Barke, a Sea, a Wind:\nFor still thy eyes, which I may call the Sea,\nDo ebbe and flow with teares, the Barke thy body is\nSayling in this salt floud, the windes thy sighes,\nWho raging with the teares and they with them,\nWithout a sudden calme will ouer set\nThy tempest tossed body. How now wife?\nHaue you deliuered to her our decree?\nLady. I sir;\nBut she will none, she giues you thankes,\nI would the foole were married to her graue\nCap. Soft, take me with you, take me with you wife,\nHow, will she none? doth she not giue vs thanks?\nIs she not proud? doth she not count her blest,\nVnworthy as she is, that we haue wrought\nSo worthy a Gentleman, to be her Bridegroome\nIul. Not proud you haue,\nBut thankfull that you haue:\nProud can I neuer be of what I haue,\nBut thankfull euen for hate, that is meant Loue\nCap. How now?\nHow now? Chopt Logicke? what is this?\nProud, and I thanke you: and I thanke you not.\nThanke me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,\nBut fettle your fine ioints 'gainst Thursday next,\nTo go with Paris to Saint Peters Church:\nOr I will drag thee, on a Hurdle thither.\nOut you greene sicknesse carrion, out you baggage,\nYou tallow face\nLady. Fie, fie, what are you mad?\nIul. Good Father, I beseech you on my knees\nHeare me with patience, but to speake a word\nFa. Hang thee young baggage, disobedient wretch,\nI tell thee what, get thee to Church a Thursday,\nOr neuer after looke me in the face.\nSpeake not, reply not, do not answere me.\nMy fingers itch, wife: we scarce thought vs blest,\nThat God had lent vs but this onely Child,\nBut now I see this one is one too much,\nAnd that we haue a curse in hauing her:\nOut on her Hilding\nNur. God in heauen blesse her,\nYou are too blame my Lord to rate her so\nFa. And why my Lady wisedome? hold your tongue,\nGood Prudence, smatter with your gossip, go\nNur. I speak no treason,\nFather, O Godigoden,\nMay not one speake?\nFa. Peace you mumbling foole,\nVtter your grauitie ore a Gossips bowles\nFor here we need it not\nLa. You are too hot\nFa. Gods bread, it makes me mad:\nDay, night, houre, ride, time, worke, play,\nAlone in companie, still my care hath bin\nTo haue her matcht, and hauing now prouided\nA Gentleman of Noble Parentage,\nOf faire Demeanes, Youthfull, and Nobly Allied,\nStuft as they say with Honourable parts,\nProportion'd as ones thought would wish a man,\nAnd then to haue a wretched puling foole,\nA whining mammet, in her Fortunes tender,\nTo answer, Ile not wed, I cannot Loue:\nI am too young, I pray you pardon me.\nBut, and you will not wed, Ile pardon you.\nGraze where you will, you shall not house with me:\nLooke too't, thinke on't, I do not vse to iest.\nThursday is neere, lay hand on heart, aduise,\nAnd you be mine, Ile giue you to my Friend:\nAnd you be not, hang, beg, starue, die in the streets,\nFor by my soule, Ile nere acknowledge thee,\nNor what is mine shall neuer do thee good:\nTrust too't, bethinke you, Ile not be forsworne\nEnter.\nIuli. Is there no pittie sitting in the Cloudes,\nThat sees into the bottome of my griefe?\nO sweet my Mother cast me not away,\nDelay this marriage, for a month, a weeke,\nOr if you do not, make the Bridall bed\nIn that dim Monument where Tybalt lies\nMo. Talke not to me, for Ile not speake a word,\nDo as thou wilt, for I haue done with thee.\nEnter.\nIul. O God!\nO Nurse, how shall this be preuented?\nMy Husband is on earth, my faith in heauen,\nHow shall that faith returne againe to earth,\nVnlesse that Husband send it me from heauen,\nBy leauing earth? Comfort me, counsaile me:\nAlacke, alacke, that heauen should practise stratagems\nVpon so soft a subiect as my selfe.\nWhat saist thou? hast thou not a word of ioy?\nSome comfort Nurse\nNur. Faith here it is,\nRomeo is banished, and all the world to nothing,\nThat he dares nere come backe to challenge you:\nOr if he do, it needs must be by stealth.\nThen since the case so stands as now it doth,\nI thinke it best you married with the Countie,\nO hee's a Louely Gentleman:\nRomeos a dish-clout to him: an Eagle Madam\nHath not so greene, so quicke, so faire an eye\nAs Paris hath, beshrow my very heart,\nI thinke you are happy in this second match,\nFor it excels your first: or if it did not,\nYour first is dead, or 'twere as good he were,\nAs liuing here and you no vse of him\nIul. Speakest thou from thy heart?\nNur. And from my soule too,\nOr else beshrew them both\nIul. Amen\nNur. What?\nIul. Well, thou hast comforted me marue'lous much,\nGo in, and tell my Lady I am gone,\nHauing displeas'd my Father, to Lawrence Cell,\nTo make confession, and to be absolu'd\nNur. Marrie I will, and this is wisely done\nIul. Auncient damnation, O most wicked fiend!\nIt is more sin to wish me thus forsworne,\nOr to dispraise my Lord with that same tongue\nWhich she hath prais'd him with aboue compare,\nSo many thousand times? Go Counsellor,\nThou and my bosom henceforth shall be twaine:\nIle to the Frier to know his remedie,\nIf all else faile, my selfe haue power to die.\nExeunt.\nEnter Frier and Countie Paris.\nFri. On Thursday sir? the time is very short\nPar. My Father Capulet will haue it so,\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his hast\nFri. You say you do not know the Ladies mind?\nVneuen is the course, I like it not\nPa. Immoderately she weepes for Tybalts death,\nAnd therfore haue I little talke of Loue,\nFor Venus smiles not in a house of teares.\nNow sir, her Father counts it dangerous\nThat she doth giue her sorrow so much sway:\nAnd in his wisedome, hasts our marriage,\nTo stop the inundation of her teares,\nWhich too much minded by her selfe alone,\nMay be put from her by societie.\nNow doe you know the reason of this hast?\nFri. I would I knew not why it should be slow'd.\nLooke sir, here comes the Lady towards my Cell.\nEnter Iuliet.\nPar. Happily met, my Lady and my wife\nIul. That may be sir, when I may be a wife\nPar. That may be, must be Loue, on Thursday next\nIul. What must be shall be\nFri. That's a certaine text\nPar. Come you to make confession to this Father?\nIul. To answere that, I should confesse to you\nPar. Do not denie to him, that you Loue me\nIul. I will confesse to you that I Loue him\nPar. So will ye, I am sure that you Loue me\nIul. If I do so, it will be of more price,\nBeing spoke behind your backe, then to your face\nPar. Poore soule, thy face is much abus'd with teares\nIul. The teares haue got small victorie by that:\nFor it was bad inough before their spight\nPa. Thou wrong'st it more then teares with that report\nIul. That is no slaunder sir, which is a truth,\nAnd what I spake, I spake it to thy face\nPar. Thy face is mine, and thou hast slaundred it\nIul. It may be so, for it is not mine owne.\nAre you at leisure, Holy Father now,\nOr shall I come to you at euening Masse?\nFri. My leisure serues me pensiue daughter now.\nMy Lord you must intreat the time alone\nPar. Godsheild: I should disturbe Deuotion,\nIuliet, on Thursday early will I rowse yee,\nTill then adue, and keepe this holy kisse.\nExit Paris.\nIul. O shut the doore, and when thou hast done so,\nCome weepe with me, past hope, past care, past helpe\nFri. O Iuliet, I alreadie know thy griefe,\nIt streames me past the compasse of my wits:\nI heare thou must and nothing may prorogue it,\nOn Thursday next be married to this Countie\nIul. Tell me not Frier that thou hearest of this,\nVnlesse thou tell me how I may preuent it:\nIf in thy wisedome, thou canst giue no helpe,\nDo thou but call my resolution wise,\nAnd with this knife, Ile helpe it presently.\nGod ioyn'd my heart, and Romeos, thou our hands,\nAnd ere this hand by thee to Romeo seal'd:\nShall be the Labell to another Deede,\nOr my true heart with trecherous reuolt,\nTurne to another, this shall slay them both:\nTherefore out of thy long experien'st time,\nGiue me some present counsell, or behold\nTwixt my extreames and me, this bloody knife\nShall play the vmpeere, arbitrating that,\nWhich the commission of thy yeares and art,\nCould to no issue of true honour bring:\nBe not so long to speak, I long to die,\nIf what thou speak'st, speake not of remedy\nFri. Hold Daughter, I doe spie a kind of hope,\nWhich craues as desperate an execution,\nAs that is desperate which we would preuent.\nIf rather then to marrie Countie Paris\nThou hast the strength of will to slay thy selfe,\nThen is it likely thou wilt vndertake\nA thing like death to chide away this shame,\nThat coap'st with death himselfe, to scape fro it:\nAnd if thou dar'st, Ile giue thee remedie\nIul. Oh bid me leape, rather then marrie Paris,\nFrom of the Battlements of any Tower,\nOr walke in theeuish waies, or bid me lurke\nWhere Serpents are: chaine me with roaring Beares\nOr hide me nightly in a Charnell house,\nOrecouered quite with dead mens ratling bones,\nWith reckie shankes and yellow chappels sculls:\nOr bid me go into a new made graue,\nAnd hide me with a dead man in his graue,\nThings that to heare them told, haue made me tremble,\nAnd I will doe it without feare or doubt,\nTo liue an vnstained wife to my sweet Loue\nFri. Hold then: goe home, be merrie, giue consent,\nTo marrie Paris: wensday is to morrow,\nTo morrow night looke that thou lie alone,\nLet not thy Nurse lie with thee in thy Chamber:\nTake thou this Violl being then in bed,\nAnd this distilling liquor drinke thou off,\nWhen presently through all thy veines shall run,\nA cold and drowsie humour: for no pulse\nShall keepe his natiue progresse, but surcease:\nNo warmth, no breath shall testifie thou liuest,\nThe Roses in thy lips and cheekes shall fade\nTo many ashes, the eyes windowes fall\nLike death when he shut vp the day of life:\nEach part depriu'd of supple gouernment,\nShall stiffe and starke, and cold appeare like death,\nAnd in this borrowed likenesse of shrunke death\nThou shalt continue two and forty houres,\nAnd then awake, as from a pleasant sleepe.\nNow when the Bridegroome in the morning comes,\nTo rowse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead:\nThen as the manner of our country is,\nIn thy best Robes vncouer'd on the Beere,\nBe borne to buriall in thy kindreds graue:\nThou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault,\nWhere all the kindred of the Capulets lie,\nIn the meane time against thou shalt awake,\nShall Romeo by my Letters know our drift,\nAnd hither shall he come, and that very night\nShall Romeo beare thee hence to Mantua.\nAnd this shall free thee from this present shame,\nIf no inconstant toy nor womanish feare,\nAbate thy valour in the acting it\nIul. Giue me, giue me, O tell me not of care\nFri. Hold get you gone, be strong and prosperous:\nIn this resolue, Ile send a Frier with speed\nTo Mantua with my Letters to thy Lord\nIu. Loue giue me strength,\nAnd the strength shall helpe afford:\nFarewell deare father.\nExit\nEnter Father Capulet, Mother, Nurse, and Seruing men, two or\nthree.\nCap. So many guests inuite as here are writ,\nSirrah, go hire me twenty cunning Cookes\nSer. You shall haue none ill sir, for Ile trie if they can\nlicke their fingers\nCap. How canst thou trie them so?\nSer. Marrie sir, 'tis an ill Cooke that cannot licke his\nowne fingers: therefore he that cannot licke his fingers\ngoes not with me\nCap. Go be gone, we shall be much vnfurnisht for this\ntime: what is my Daughter gone to Frier Lawrence?\nNur. I forsooth\nCap. Well he may chance to do some good on her,\nA peeuish selfe-wild harlotry it is.\nEnter Iuliet.\nNur. See where she comes from shrift\nWith merrie looke\nCap. How now my headstrong,\nWhere haue you bin gadding?\nIul. Where I haue learnt me to repent the sin\nOf disobedient opposition:\nTo you and your behests, and am enioyn'd\nBy holy Lawrence, to fall prostrate here,\nTo beg your pardon: pardon I beseech you,\nHenceforward I am euer rul'd by you\nCap. Send for the Countie, goe tell him of this,\nIle haue this knot knit vp to morrow morning\nIul. I met the youthfull Lord at Lawrence Cell,\nAnd gaue him what becomed Loue I might,\nNot stepping ore the bounds of modestie\nCap. Why I am glad on't, this is well, stand vp,\nThis is as't should be, let me see the County:\nI marrie go I say, and fetch him hither.\nNow afore God, this reueren'd holy Frier,\nAll our whole Cittie is much bound to him\nIul. Nurse will you goe with me into my Closet,\nTo helpe me sort such needfull ornaments,\nAs you thinke fit to furnish me to morrow?\nMo. No not till Thursday, there's time inough\nFa. Go Nurse, go with her,\nWeele to Church to morrow.\nExeunt. Iuliet and Nurse.\nMo. We shall be short in our prouision,\n'Tis now neere night\nFa. Tush, I will stirre about,\nAnd all things shall be well, I warrant thee wife:\nGo thou to Iuliet, helpe to decke vp her,\nIle not to bed to night, let me alone:\nIle play the huswife for this once. What ho?\nThey are all forth, well I will walke my selfe\nTo Countie Paris, to prepare him vp\nAgainst to morrow, my heart is wondrous light,\nSince this same way-ward Gyrle is so reclaim'd.\nExeunt. Father and Mother.\nEnter Iuliet and Nurse.\nIul. I those attires are best, but gentle Nurse\nI pray thee leaue me to my selfe to night:\nFor I haue need of many Orysons,\nTo moue the heauens to smile vpon my state,\nWhich well thou know'st, is crosse and full of sin.\nEnter Mother.\nMo. What are you busie ho? need you my help?\nIul. No Madam, we haue cul'd such necessaries\nAs are behoouefull for our state to morrow:\nSo please you, let me now be left alone;\nAnd let the Nurse this night sit vp with you,\nFor I am sure, you haue your hands full all,\nIn this so sudden businesse\nMo. Goodnight.\nGet thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need.\nExeunt.\nIul. Farewell:\nGod knowes when we shall meete againe.\nI haue a faint cold feare thrills through my veines,\nThat almost freezes vp the heate of fire:\nIle call them backe againe to comfort me.\nNurse, what should she do here?\nMy dismall Sceane, I needs must act alone:\nCome Viall, what if this mixture do not worke at all?\nShall I be married then to morrow morning?\nNo, no, this shall forbid it. Lie thou there,\nWhat if it be a poyson which the Frier\nSubtilly hath ministred to haue me dead,\nLeast in this marriage he should be dishonour'd,\nBecause he married me before to Romeo?\nI feare it is, and yet me thinkes it should not,\nFor he hath still beene tried a holy man.\nHow, if when I am laid into the Tombe,\nI wake before the time that Romeo\nCome to redeeme me? There's a fearefull point:\nShall I not then be stifled in the Vault?\nTo whose foule mouth no healthsome ayre breaths in,\nAnd there die strangled ere my Romeo comes.\nOr if I liue, is it not very like,\nThe horrible conceit of death and night,\nTogether with the terror of the place,\nAs in a Vaulte, an ancient receptacle,\nWhere for these many hundred yeeres the bones\nOf all my buried Auncestors are packt,\nWhere bloody Tybalt, yet but greene in earth,\nLies festring in his shrow'd, where as they say,\nAt some houres in the night, Spirits resort:\nAlacke, alacke, is it not like that I\nSo early waking, what with loathsome smels,\nAnd shrikes like Mandrakes torne out of the earth,\nThat liuing mortalls hearing them, run mad.\nO if I wake, shall I not be distraught,\nInuironed with all these hidious feares,\nAnd madly play with my forefathers ioynts?\nAnd plucke the mangled Tybalt from his shrow'd?\nAnd in this rage, with some great kinsmans bone,\nAs (with a club) dash out my desperate braines.\nO looke, me thinks I see my Cozins Ghost,\nSeeking out Romeo that did spit his body\nVpon my Rapiers point: stay Tybalt, stay;\nRomeo, Romeo, Romeo, here's drinke: I drinke to thee.\nEnter Lady of the house, and Nurse.\nLady. Hold,\nTake these keies, and fetch more spices Nurse\nNur. They call for Dates and Quinces in the Pastrie.\nEnter old Capulet.\nCap. Come, stir, stir, stir,\nThe second Cocke hath Crow'd,\nThe Curphew Bell hath rung, 'tis three a clocke:\nLooke to the bakte meates, good Angelica,\nSpare not for cost\nNur. Go you Cot-queane, go,\nGet you to bed, faith youle be sicke to morrow\nFor this nights watching\nCap. No not a whit: what? I haue watcht ere now\nAll night for lesse cause, and nere beene sicke\nLa. I you haue bin a Mouse-hunt in your time,\nBut I will watch you from such watching now.\nExit Lady and Nurse.\nCap. A iealous hood, a iealous hood,\nNow fellow, what there?\nEnter three or foure with spits, and logs, and baskets.\nFel. Things for the Cooke sir, but I know not what\nCap. Make hast, make hast, sirrah, fetch drier Logs.\nCall Peter, he will shew thee where they are\nFel. I haue a head sir, that will find out logs,\nAnd neuer trouble Peter for the matter\nCap. Masse and well said, a merrie horson, ha,\nThou shalt be loggerhead; good Father, 'tis day.\nPlay Musicke\nThe Countie will be here with Musicke straight,\nFor so he said he would, I heare him neere,\nNurse, wife, what ho? what Nurse I say?\nEnter Nurse.\nGo waken Iuliet, go and trim her vp,\nIle go and chat with Paris: hie, make hast,\nMake hast, the Bridegroome, he is come already:\nMake hast I say\nNur. Mistris, what Mistris? Iuliet? Fast I warrant her she.\nWhy Lambe, why Lady? fie you sluggabed,\nWhy Loue I say? Madam, sweet heart: why Bride?\nWhat not a word? You take your peniworths now.\nSleepe for a weeke, for the next night I warrant\nThe Countie Paris hath set vp his rest,\nThat you shall rest but little, God forgiue me:\nMarrie and Amen: how sound is she a sleepe?\nI must needs wake her: Madam, Madam, Madam,\nI, let the Countie take you in your bed,\nHeele fright you vp yfaith. Will it not be?\nWhat drest, and in your clothes, and downe againe?\nI must needs wake you: Lady, Lady, Lady?\nAlas, alas, helpe, helpe, my Ladyes dead,\nOh weladay, that euer I was borne,\nSome Aqua-vit\u00e6 ho, my Lord, my Lady?\nMo. What noise is heere?\nEnter Mother.\nNur. O lamentable day\nMo. What is the matter?\nNur. Looke, looke, oh heauie day\nMo. O me, O me, my Child, my onely life:\nReuiue, looke vp, or I will die with thee:\nHelpe, helpe, call helpe.\nEnter Father.\nFa. For shame bring Iuliet forth, her Lord is come\nNur. Shee's dead: deceast, shee's dead: alacke the day\nM. Alacke the day, shee's dead, shee's dead, shee's dead\nFa. Ha? Let me see her: out alas shee's cold,\nHer blood is setled and her ioynts are stiffe:\nLife and these lips haue long bene seperated:\nDeath lies on her like an vntimely frost\nVpon the swetest flower of all the field\nNur. O Lamentable day!\nMo. O wofull time\nFa. Death that hath tane her hence to make me waile,\nTies vp my tongue, and will not let me speake.\nEnter Frier and the Countie.\nFri. Come, is the Bride ready to go to Church?\nFa. Ready to go, but neuer to returne.\nO Sonne, the night before thy wedding day,\nHath death laine with thy wife: there she lies,\nFlower as she was, deflowred by him.\nDeath is my Sonne in law, death is my Heire,\nMy Daughter he hath wedded. I will die,\nAnd leaue him all life liuing, all is deaths\nPa. Haue I thought long to see this mornings face,\nAnd doth it giue me such a sight as this?\nMo. Accur'st, vnhappie, wretched hatefull day,\nMost miserable houre, that ere time saw\nIn lasting labour of his Pilgrimage.\nBut one, poore one, one poore and louing Child,\nBut one thing to reioyce and solace in,\nAnd cruell death hath catcht it from my sight\nNur. O wo, O wofull, wofull, wofull day,\nMost lamentable day, most wofull day,\nThat euer, euer, I did yet behold.\nO day, O day, O day, O hatefull day,\nNeuer was seene so blacke a day as this:\nO wofull day, O wofull day\nPa. Beguild, diuorced, wronged, spighted, slaine,\nMost detestable death, by thee beguil'd,\nBy cruell, cruell thee, quite ouerthrowne:\nO loue, O life; not life, but loue in death\nFat. Despis'd, distressed, hated, martir'd, kil'd,\nVncomfortable time, why cam'st thou now\nTo murther, murther our solemnitie?\nO Child, O Child; my soule, and not my Child,\nDead art thou, alacke my Child is dead,\nAnd with my Child, my ioyes are buried\nFri. Peace ho for shame, confusions: Care liues not\nIn these confusions, heauen and your selfe\nHad part in this faire Maid, now heauen hath all,\nAnd all the better is it for the Maid:\nYour part in her, you could not keepe from death,\nBut heauen keepes his part in eternall life:\nThe most you sought was her promotion,\nFor 'twas your heauen, she shouldst be aduan'st,\nAnd weepe ye now, seeing she is aduan'st\nAboue the Cloudes, as high as Heauen it selfe?\nO in this loue, you loue your Child so ill,\nThat you run mad, seeing that she is well:\nShee's not well married, that liues married long,\nBut shee's best married, that dies married yong.\nDrie vp your teares, and sticke your Rosemarie\nOn this faire Coarse, and as the custome is,\nAnd in her best array beare her to Church:\nFor though some Nature bids all vs lament,\nYet Natures teares are Reasons merriment\nFa. All things that we ordained Festiuall,\nTurne from their office to blacke Funerall:\nOur instruments to melancholy Bells,\nOur wedding cheare, to a sad buriall Feast:\nOur solemne Hymnes, to sullen Dyrges change:\nOur Bridall flowers serue for a buried Coarse:\nAnd all things change them to the contrarie\nFri. Sir go you in; and Madam, go with him,\nAnd go sir Paris, euery one prepare\nTo follow this faire Coarse vnto her graue:\nThe heauens do lowre vpon you, for some ill:\nMoue them no more, by crossing their high will.\nExeunt.\nMu. Faith we may put vp our Pipes and be gone\nNur. Honest goodfellowes: Ah put vp, put vp,\nFor well you know, this is a pitifull case\nMu. I by my troth, the case may be amended.\nEnter Peter.\nPet. Musitions, oh Musitions,\nHearts ease, hearts ease,\nO, and you will haue me liue, play hearts ease\nMu. Why hearts ease;\nPet. O Musitions,\nBecause my heart it selfe plaies, my heart is full\nMu. Not a dump we, 'tis no time to play now\nPet. You will not then?\nMu. No\nPet. I will then giue it you soundly\nMu. What will you giue vs?\nPet. No money on my faith, but the gleeke.\nI will giue you the Minstrell\nMu. Then will I giue you the Seruing creature\nPeter. Then will I lay the seruing Creatures Dagger\non your pate. I will carie no Crochets, Ile Re you, Ile Fa\nyou, do you note me?\nMu. And you Re vs, and Fa vs, you Note vs\n2.M. Pray you put vp your Dagger,\nAnd put out your wit.\nThen haue at you with my wit\nPeter. I will drie-beate you with an yron wit,\nAnd put vp my yron Dagger.\nAnswere me like men:\nWhen griping griefes the heart doth wound, then Musicke\nwith her siluer sound.\nWhy siluer sound? why Musicke with her siluer sound?\nwhat say you Simon Catling?\nMu. Mary sir, because siluer hath a sweet sound\nPet. Pratest, what say you Hugh Rebicke?\n2.M. I say siluer sound, because Musitions sound for siluer\nPet. Pratest to, what say you Iames Sound-Post?\n3.Mu. Faith I know not what to say\nPet. O I cry you mercy, you are the Singer.\nI will say for you; it is Musicke with her siluer sound,\nBecause Musitions haue no gold for sounding:\nThen Musicke with her siluer sound, with speedy helpe\ndoth lend redresse.\nEnter.\nMu. What a pestilent knaue is this same?\nM.2. Hang him Iacke, come weele in here, tarrie for\nthe Mourners, and stay dinner.\nEnter.\nEnter Romeo.\nRom. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleepe,\nMy dreames presage some ioyfull newes at hand:\nMy bosomes L[ord]. sits lightly in his throne:\nAnd all this day an vnaccustom'd spirit,\nLifts me aboue the ground with cheerefull thoughts.\nI dreamt my Lady came and found me dead,\n(Strange dreame that giues a dead man leaue to thinke,)\nAnd breath'd such life with kisses in my lips,\nThat I reuiu'd and was an Emperour.\nAh me, how sweet is loue it selfe possest,\nWhen but loues shadowes are so rich in ioy.\nEnter Romeo's man.\nNewes from Verona, how now Balthazer?\nDost thou not bring me Letters from the Frier?\nHow doth my Lady? Is my Father well?\nHow doth my Lady Iuliet? that I aske againe,\nFor nothing can be ill, is she be well\nMan. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill.\nHer body sleepes in Capels Monument,\nAnd her immortall part with Angels liue,\nI saw her laid low in her kindreds Vault,\nAnd presently tooke Poste to tell it you:\nO pardon me for bringing these ill newes,\nSince you did leaue it for my office Sir\nRom. Is it euen so?\nThen I denie you Starres.\nThou knowest my lodging, get me inke and paper,\nAnd hire Post-Horses, I will hence to night\nMan. I do beseech you sir, haue patience:\nYour lookes are pale and wild, and do import\nSome misaduenture\nRom. Tush, thou art deceiu'd,\nLeaue me, and do the thing I bid thee do.\nHast thou no Letters to me from the Frier?\nMan. No my good Lord.\nExit Man.\nRom. No matter: Get thee gone,\nAnd hyre those Horses, Ile be with thee straight,\nWell Iuliet, I will lie with thee to night:\nLets see for meanes, O mischiefe thou art swift,\nTo enter in the thoughts of desperate men:\nI do remember an Appothecarie,\nAnd here abouts dwells, which late I noted\nIn tattred weeds, with ouerwhelming browes,\nCulling of Simples, meager were his lookes,\nSharp miserie had worne him to the bones:\nAnd in his needie shop a Tortoyrs hung,\nAn Allegater stuft, and other skins\nOf ill shap'd fishes, and about his shelues,\nA beggerly account of emptie boxes ,\nGreene earthen pots, Bladders, and mustie seedes,\nRemnants of packthred, and old cakes of Roses\nWere thinly scattered, to make vp a shew.\nNoting this penury, to my selfe I said,\nAn if a man did need a poyson now,\nWhose sale is present death in Mantua,\nHere liues a Caitiffe wretch would sell it him.\nO this same thought did but fore-run my need,\nAnd this same needie man must sell it me.\nAs I remember, this should be the house,\nBeing holy day, the beggers shop is shut.\nWhat ho? Appothecarie?\nEnter Appothecarie.\nApp. Who call's so low'd?\nRom. Come hither man, I see that thou art poore,\nHold, there is fortie Duckets, let me haue\nA dram of poyson, such soone speeding geare,\nAs will disperse it selfe through all the veines,\nThat the life-wearie-taker may fall dead,\nAnd that the Trunke may be discharg'd of breath,\nAs violently, as hastie powder fier'd\nDoth hurry from the fatall Canons wombe\nApp. Such mortall drugs I haue, but Mantuas law\nIs death to any he, that vtters them\nRom. Art thou so bare and full of wretchednesse,\nAnd fear'st to die? Famine is in thy cheekes,\nNeed and opression starueth in thy eyes,\nContempt and beggery hangs vpon thy backe:\nThe world is not thy friend, nor the worlds law:\nThe world affords no law to make thee rich.\nThen be not poore, but breake it, and take this\nApp. My pouerty, but not my will consents\nRom. I pray thy pouerty, and not thy will\nApp. Put this in any liquid thing you will\nAnd drinke it off, and if you had the strength\nOf twenty men, it would dispatch you straight\nRom. There's thy Gold,\nWorse poyson to mens soules,\nDoing more murther in this loathsome world,\nThen these poore compounds that thou maiest not sell.\nI sell thee poyson, thou hast sold me none,\nFarewell, buy food, and get thy selfe in flesh.\nCome Cordiall, and not poyson, go with me\nTo Iuliets graue, for there must I vse thee.\nExeunt.\nEnter Frier Iohn to Frier Lawrence.\nIohn. Holy Franciscan Frier, Brother, ho?\nEnter Frier Lawrence.\nLaw. This same should be the voice of Frier Iohn.\nWelcome from Mantua, what sayes Romeo?\nOr if his mind be writ, giue me his Letter\nIohn. Going to find a bare-foote Brother out,\nOne of our order to associate me,\nHere in this Citie visiting the sick,\nAnd finding him, the Searchers of the Towne\nSuspecting that we both were in a house\nWhere the infectious pestilence did raigne,\nSeal'd vp the doores, and would not let vs forth,\nSo that my speed to Mantua there was staid\nLaw. Who bare my Letter then to Romeo?\nIohn. I could not send it, here it is againe,\nNor get a messenger to bring it thee,\nSo fearefull were they of infection\nLaw. Vnhappie Fortune: by my Brotherhood\nThe Letter was not nice; but full of charge,\nOf deare import; and the neglecting it\nMay do much danger: Frier Iohn go hence,\nGet me an Iron Crow, and bring it straight\nVnto my Cell\nIohn. Brother Ile go and bring it thee.\nEnter.\nLaw. Now must I to the Monument alone,\nWithin this three houres will faire Iuliet wake,\nShee will beshrew me much that Romeo\nHath had no notice of these accidents:\nBut I will write againe to Mantua,\nAnd keepe her at my Cell till Romeo come,\nPoore liuing Coarse, clos'd in a dead mans Tombe,\nEnter.\nEnter Paris and his Page.\nPar. Giue me thy Torch Boy, hence and stand aloft,\nYet put it out, for I would not be seene:\nVnder yond young Trees lay thee all along,\nHolding thy eare close to the hollow ground,\nSo shall no foot vpon the Churchyard tread,\nBeing loose, vnfirme with digging vp of Graues,\nBut thou shalt heare it: whistle then to me,\nAs signall that thou hearest some thing approach,\nGiue me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go\nPage. I am almost afraid to stand alone\nHere in the Churchyard, yet I will aduenture\nPa. Sweet Flower with flowers thy Bridall bed I strew:\nO woe, thy Canopie is dust and stones,\nWhich with sweet water nightly I will dewe,\nOr wanting that, with teares destil'd by mones;\nThe obsequies that I for thee will keepe,\nNightly shall be, to strew thy graue, and weepe.\nWhistle Boy.\nThe Boy giues warning, something doth approach,\nWhat cursed foot wanders this wayes to night,\nTo crosse my obsequies, and true loues right?\nWhat with a Torch? Muffle me night a while.\nEnter Romeo, and Peter.\nRom. Giue me that Mattocke, & the wrenching Iron,\nHold take this Letter, early in the morning\nSee thou deliuer it to my Lord and Father,\nGiue me the light; vpon thy life I charge thee,\nWhat ere thou hear'st or seest, stand all aloofe,\nAnd do not interrupt me in my course.\nWhy I descend into this bed of death,\nIs partly to behold my Ladies face:\nBut chiefly to take thence from her dead finger,\nA precious Ring, a Ring that I must vse,\nIn deare employment, therefore hence be gone:\nBut if thou iealous dost returne to prie\nIn what I further shall intend to do,\nBy heauen I will teare thee ioynt by ioynt,\nAnd strew this hungry Churchyard with thy limbs:\nThe time, and my intents are sauage wilde:\nMore fierce and more inexorable farre,\nThem emptie Tygers, or the roaring Sea\nPet. I will be gone sir, and not trouble you\nRo. So shalt thou shew me friendship: take thou that,\nLiue and be prosperous, and farewell good fellow\nPet. For all this same, Ile hide me here about,\nHis lookes I feare, and his intents I doubt\nRom. Thou detestable mawe, thou wombe of death,\nGorg'd with the dearest morsell of the earth:\nThus I enforce thy rotten Iawes to open,\nAnd in despight, Ile cram thee with more food\nPar. This is that banisht haughtie Mountague,\nThat murdred my Loues Cozin; with which griefe,\nIt is supposed the faire Creature died,\nAnd here is come to do some villanous shame\nTo the dead bodies: I will apprehend him.\nStop thy vnhallowed toyle, vile Mountague:\nCan vengeance be pursued further then death?\nCondemned villaine, I do apprehend thee.\nObey and go with me, for thou must die,\nRom. I must indeed, and therfore came I hither:\nGood gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man,\nFlie hence and leaue me, thinke vpon those gone,\nLet them affright thee. I beseech thee Youth,\nPut not an other sin vpon my head,\nBy vrging me to furie. O be gone,\nBy heauen I loue thee better then my selfe,\nFor I come hither arm'd against my selfe:\nStay not, be gone, liue, and hereafter say,\nA mad mans mercy bid thee run away\nPar. I do defie thy commisseration,\nAnd apprehend thee for a Fellon here\nRo. Wilt thou prouoke me? Then haue at thee Boy\nPet. O Lord they fight, I will go call the Watch\nPa. O I am slaine, if thou be mercifull,\nOpen the Tombe, lay me with Iuliet\nRom. In faith I will, let me peruse this face:\nMercutius kinsman, Noble Countie Paris,\nWhat said my man, when my betossed soule\nDid not attend him as we rode? I thinke\nHe told me Paris should haue married Iuliet.\nSaid he not so? Or did I dreame it so?\nOr am I mad, hearing him talke of Iuliet,\nTo thinke it was so? O giue me thy hand,\nOne, writ with me in sowre misfortunes booke.\nIle burie thee in a triumphant graue.\nA Graue; O no, a Lanthorne; slaughtred Youth:\nFor here lies Iuliet, and her beautie makes\nThis Vault a feasting presence full of light.\nDeath lie thou there, by a dead man inter'd,\nHow oft when men are at the point of death,\nHaue they beene merrie? Which their Keepers call\nA lightning before death? Oh how may I\nCall this a lightning? O my Loue, my Wife,\nDeath that hath suckt the honey of thy breath,\nHath had no power yet vpon thy Beautie:\nThou are not conquer'd: Beauties ensigne yet\nIs Crymson in thy lips, and in thy cheekes,\nAnd Deaths pale flag is not aduanced there.\nTybalt, ly'st thou there in thy bloudy sheet?\nO what more fauour can I do to thee,\nThen with that hand that cut thy youth in twaine,\nTo sunder his that was thy enemie?\nForgiue me Cozen. Ah deare Iuliet:\nWhy art thou yet so faire? I will beleeue,\nShall I beleeue, that vnsubstantiall death is amorous?\nAnd that the leane abhorred Monster keepes\nThee here in darke to be his Paramour?\nFor feare of that, I still will stay with thee,\nAnd neuer from this Pallace of dym night\nDepart againe: come lie thou in my armes,\nHeere's to thy health, where ere thou tumblest in.\nO true Appothecarie!\nThy drugs are quicke. Thus with a kisse I die.\nDepart againe; here, here will I remaine,\nWith Wormes that are thy Chambermaides: O here\nWill I set vp my euerlasting rest:\nAnd shake the yoke of inauspicious starres\nFrom this world-wearied flesh: Eyes looke your last:\nArmes take your last embrace: And lips, O you\nThe doores of breath, seale with a righteous kisse\nA datelesse bargaine to ingrossing death:\nCome bitter conduct, come vnsauory guide,\nThou desperate Pilot, now at once run on\nThe dashing Rocks, thy Sea-sicke wearie Barke:\nHeere's to my Loue. O true Appothecary:\nThy drugs are quicke. Thus with a kisse I die.\nEnter Frier with a Lanthorne, Crow, and Spade.\nFri. St. Francis be my speed, how oft to night\nHaue my old feet stumbled at graues? Who's there?\nMan. Here's one, a Friend, & one that knowes you well\nFri. Blisse be vpon you. Tell me good my Friend\nWhat Torch is yond that vainely lends his light\nTo grubs, and eyelesse Sculles? As I discerne,\nIt burneth in the Capels Monument\nMan. It doth so holy sir,\nAnd there's my Master, one that you loue\nFri. Who is it?\nMan. Romeo\nFri. How long hath he bin there?\nMan. Full halfe an houre\nFri. Go with me to the Vault\nMan. I dare not Sir.\nMy Master knowes not but I am gone hence,\nAnd fearefully did menace me with death,\nIf I did stay to looke on his entents\nFri. Stay, then Ile go alone, feares comes vpon me.\nO much I feare some ill vnluckie thing\nMan. As I did sleepe vnder this young tree here,\nI dreamt my maister and another fought,\nAnd that my Maister slew him\nFri. Romeo.\nAlacke, alacke, what blood is this which staines\nThe stony entrance of this Sepulcher?\nWhat meane these Masterlesse, and goarie Swords\nTo lie discolour'd by this place of peace?\nRomeo, oh pale: who else? what Paris too?\nAnd steept in blood? Ah what an vnkind houre\nIs guiltie of this lamentable chance?\nThe Lady stirs\nIul. O comfortable Frier, where's my Lord?\nI do remember well where I should be:\nAnd there I am, where is my Romeo?\nFri. I heare some noyse Lady, come from that nest\nOf death, contagion, and vnnaturall sleepe,\nA greater power then we can contradict\nHath thwarted our entents, come, come away,\nThy husband in thy bosome there lies dead:\nAnd Paris too: come Ile dispose of thee,\nAmong a Sisterhood of holy Nunnes:\nStay not to question, for the watch is comming.\nCome, go good Iuliet, I dare no longer stay.\nEnter.\nIul. Go get thee hence, for I will not away,\nWhat's here, A cup clos'd in my true loues hand?\nPoyson I see hath bin his timelesse end\nO churle, drinke all? and left no friendly drop,\nTo helpe me after, I will kisse thy lips,\nHapplie some poyson yet doth hang on them,\nTo make me die with a restoratiue.\nThy lips are warme.\nEnter Boy and Watch.\nWatch. Lead Boy, which way?\nIul. Yea noise?\nThen ile be briefe. O happy Dagger.\n'Tis in thy sheath, there rust and let me die.\nKils herselfe.\nBoy. This is the place,\nThere where the Torch doth burne\nWatch. The ground is bloody,\nSearch about the Churchyard.\nGo some of you, who ere you find attach.\nPittifull sight, here lies the Countie slaine,\nAnd Iuliet bleeding, warme and newly dead\nWho here hath laine these two dayes buried.\nGo tell the Prince, runne to the Capulets,\nRaise vp the Mountagues, some others search,\nWe see the ground whereon these woes do lye,\nBut the true ground of all these piteous woes,\nWe cannot without circumstance descry.\nEnter Romeo's man.\nWatch. Here's Romeo's man,\nWe found him in the Churchyard\nCon. Hold him in safety, till the Prince come hither.\nEnter Frier, and another Watchman.\n3.Wat. Here is a Frier that trembles, sighes, and weepes\nWe tooke this Mattocke and this Spade from him,\nAs he was comming from this Church-yard side\nCon. A great suspition, stay the Frier too.\nEnter the Prince.\nPrin. What misaduenture is so earely vp,\nThat calls our person from our mornings rest?\nEnter Capulet and his Wife.\nCap. What should it be that they so shrike abroad?\nWife. O the people in the streete crie Romeo.\nSome Iuliet, and some Paris, and all runne\nWith open outcry toward our Monument\nPri. What feare is this which startles in your eares?\nWat. Soueraigne, here lies the Countie Paris slaine,\nAnd Romeo dead, and Iuliet dead before,\nWarme and new kil'd\nPrin. Search,\nSeeke, and know how, this foule murder comes\nWat. Here is a Frier, and Slaughter'd Romeos man,\nWith Instruments vpon them fit to open\nThese dead mens Tombes\nCap. O heauen!\nO wife looke how our Daughter bleedes!\nThis Dagger hath mistaine, for loe his house\nIs empty on the backe of Mountague,\nAnd is misheathed in my Daughters bosome\nWife. O me, this sight of death, is as a Bell\nThat warnes my old age to a Sepulcher.\nEnter Mountague.\nPri. Come Mountague, for thou art early vp\nTo see thy Sonne and Heire, now early downe\nMoun. Alas my liege, my wife is dead to night,\nGriefe of my Sonnes exile hath stopt her breath:\nWhat further woe conspires against my age?\nPrin. Looke: and thou shalt see\nMoun. O thou vntaught, what manners is in this,\nTo presse before thy Father to a graue?\nPrin. Seale vp the mouth of outrage for a while,\nTill we can cleare these ambiguities,\nAnd know their spring, their head, their true descent,\nAnd then I will be generall of your woes,\nAnd lead you euen to death? meane time forbeare,\nAnd let mischance be slaue to patience,\nBring forth the parties of suspition\nFri. I am the greatest, able to doe least,\nYet most suspected as the time and place\nDoth make against me of this direfull murther:\nAnd heere I stand both to impeach and purge\nMy selfe condemned, and my selfe excus'd\nPrin. Then say at once, what thou dost know in this?\nFri. I will be briefe, for my short date of breath\nIs not so long as is a tedious tale.\nRomeo there dead, was husband to that Iuliet,\nAnd she there dead, that's Romeos faithfull wife:\nI married them; and their stolne marriage day\nWas Tybalts Doomesday: whose vntimely death\nBanish'd the new-made Bridegroome from this Citie:\nFor whom (and not for Tybalt) Iuliet pinde.\nYou, to remoue that siege of Greefe from her,\nBetroth'd, and would haue married her perforce\nTo Countie Paris. Then comes she to me,\nAnd (with wilde lookes) bid me deuise some meanes\nTo rid her from this second Marriage,\nOr in my Cell there would she kill her selfe.\nThen gaue I her (so Tutor'd by my Art)\nA sleeping Potion, which so tooke effect\nAs I intended, for it wrought on her\nThe forme of death. Meane time, I writ to Romeo,\nThat he should hither come, as this dyre night,\nTo helpe to take her from her borrowed graue,\nBeing the time the Potions force should cease.\nBut he which bore my Letter, Frier Iohn,\nWas stay'd by accident; and yesternight\nReturn'd my Letter backe. Then all alone,\nAt the prefixed houre of her waking,\nCame I to take her from her Kindreds vault,\nMeaning to keepe her closely at my Cell,\nTill I conueniently could send to Romeo.\nBut when I came (some Minute ere the time\nOf her awaking) heere vntimely lay\nThe Noble Paris, and true Romeo dead.\nShee wakes, and I intreated her come foorth,\nAnd beare this worke of Heauen, with patience:\nBut then, a noyse did scarre me from the Tombe,\nAnd she (too desperate) would not go with me,\nBut (as it seemes) did violence on her selfe.\nAll this I know, and to the Marriage her Nurse is priuy:\nAnd if ought in this miscarried by my fault,\nLet my old life be sacrific'd, some houre before the time,\nVnto the rigour of seuerest Law\nPrin. We still haue knowne thee for a Holy man.\nWhere's Romeo's man? What can he say to this?\nBoy. I brought my Master newes of Iuliets death,\nAnd then in poste he came from Mantua\nTo this same place, to this same Monument.\nThis Letter he early bid me giue his Father,\nAnd threatned me with death, going in the Vault,\nIf I departed not, and left him there\nPrin. Giue me the Letter, I will look on it.\nWhere is the Counties Page that rais'd the Watch?\nSirra, what made your Master in this place?\nPage. He came with flowres to strew his Ladies graue,\nAnd bid me stand aloofe, and so I did:\nAnon comes one with light to ope the Tombe,\nAnd by and by my Maister drew on him,\nAnd then I ran away to call the Watch\nPrin. This Letter doth make good the Friers words,\nTheir course of Loue, the tydings of her death:\nAnd heere he writes, that he did buy a poyson\nOf a poore Pothecarie, and therewithall\nCame to this Vault to dye, and lye with Iuliet.\nWhere be these Enemies? Capulet, Mountague,\nSee what a scourge is laide vpon your hate,\nThat Heauen finds meanes to kill your ioyes with Loue;\nAnd I, for winking at your discords too,\nHaue lost a brace of Kinsmen: All are punish'd\nCap. O Brother Mountague, giue me thy hand,\nThis is my Daughters ioynture, for no more\nCan I demand\nMoun. But I can giue thee more:\nFor I will raise her Statue in pure Gold,\nThat whiles Verona by that name is knowne,\nThere shall no figure at that Rate be set,\nAs that of True and Faithfull Iuliet\nCap. As rich shall Romeo by his Lady ly,\nPoore sacrifices of our enmity\nPrin. A glooming peace this morning with it brings,\nThe Sunne for sorrow will not shew his head;\nGo hence, to haue more talke of these sad things,\nSome shall be pardon'd, and some punished.\nFor neuer was a Storie of more Wo,\nThen this of Iuliet, and her Romeo.\nExeunt. omnes\nFINIS. THE TRAGEDIE OF ROMEO and IVLIET","title":"The Tragedie of Romeo and Juliet","type":"page"}