Romeo & Juliet Page #3

and Juliet is the sun!

Arise, fair sun,

and kill the envious moon,

who is already sick and pale with grief

that thou, her maid,

art far more fair than she.

Be not her maid, since she is envious.

Her vestal livery is but sick and green,

and none but fools do wear it.

O cast it off!

It is my lady, it is my love.

O that she knew she were.

Ay me!

She speaks.

Speak again, bright angel.

Romeo.

O Romeo!

Wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy father and refuse thy name.

Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,

and I'll no longer be a Capulet.

Shall I hear more,

or shall I speak at this?

'Tis but thy name that is my enemy.

Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.

What's Montague?

It is not hand,

nor foot, nor arm, nor face,

nor any other part belonging to a man.

O be some other name!

What's in a name?

That which we call a rose by

any other word would smell as sweet.

So Romeo would,

were he not Romeo called,

retain that dear perfection

which he owes without that title.

Romeo, doff thy name;

and for thy name, which is

no part of thee, take all myself.

I take thee at thy word.

Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.

How camest thou hither, tell me,

and wherefore?

The garden walls are high

and hard to climb,

and the place death,

considering who thou art.

With love's light wings

did I o'erperch these walls,

for stony limits cannot hold love out,

and what love can do,

that dares love attempt.

Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me!

If they do see thee, they will murder thee.

I have night's cloak

to hide me from their eyes.

But thou love me,

let them find me here.

My life were better ended by their hate

than death prorogued,

wanting of thy love.

Thou knowest

the mask of night is on my face;

else would a maiden blush

bepaint my cheek

for that which thou hast

heard me speak tonight.

Fain would I dwell on form,

fain, fain deny what I have spoke.

But... farewell compliment.

Dost thou love me?

I know thou wilt say "Ay",

and I will take thy word.

Yet, if thou swear'st,

thou may'st prove false.

O gentle Romeo, if thou dost love,

pronounce it faithfully.

Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow,

that tips with silver all these fruit tree tops...

O swear not by the moon,

the inconstant moon that monthly

changes in her circled orb,

lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

What shall I swear by?

Do not swear at all.

Or, if thou wilt,

swear by thy gracious self

which is the god of my idolatry,

and I'll believe thee.

If my heart's...

dear love...

Do not swear. Although I joy in thee,

I have no joy in this contract tonight.

It is too rash, too unadvised,

too sudden, too like the lightning,

which doth cease to be

ere one can say "It lightens".

Sweet, good night!

This bud of love,

by summer's ripening breath,

may prove a beauteous flower

when next we meet.

Good night.

Good night!

O wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?

The exchange of thy love's

faithful vow for mine.

I gave thee mine before thou didst request it!

Juliet!

Three words, dear Romeo,

and good night indeed.

If that thy bent of love be honorable,

thy purpose marriage,

send me word tomorrow, by one

that I'll procure to come to thee,

where and what time thou wilt

perform the rite,

and all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay

and follow thee, my lord,

throughout the world.

Julieta!

Ay! By and by, I come!

But if thou meanest not well,

I do beseech thee...

- Juliet!

- By and by, I come!

...to cease thy strife,

and leave me to my grief.

Tomorrow will I send.

So thrive my soul.

A thousand times good night.

A thousand times the worse,

to want thy light!

Juliet!

Julieta!

Good night.

Love goes toward love

as schoolboys from their books;

but love from love,

toward school with heavy looks.

Romeo!

What o'clock tomorrow

shall I send to thee?

By the hour of nine.

I will not fail. 'Tis twenty year till then.

Good night.

Good night. Good night.

Parting is such sweet sorrow

that I shall say good night till it be morrow.

Juliet!

You and me always

And for ever

You and me always

And for ever

It was always you and me...

Almighty is the powerful grace

that lies in plants, herbs, stones,

and their true qualities.

For nought so vile

that on the earth doth live

but to the earth

some special good doth give.

And nought so good

but strained from that fair use

revolts from true birth,

stumbling on abuse.

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,

and vice sometime's by action dignified.

Within the infant rind of this... weak flower...

poison is resident...

and medicine power.

For this, being smelt,

with that part cheers each part.

Being tasted,

slays all senses with the heart.

Two such opposed kings encamp them still

in man as well as herbs,

grace and rude will.

And where the worser is predominant,

full soon the canker death

eats up that plant.

Good morrow, Father!

Benedicite!

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?

Good morrow, Romeo.

Good morrow.

Young son, it argues a distemper'd head

so soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.

Or if not so, then here I hit it right...

Our Romeo hath not seen his bed tonight!

The last is true - the sweeter rest was mine.

God pardon sin! Wast thou with Rosaline?

Rosaline? My ghostly father, no!

I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.

That's my good son.

But where then hast thou been?

I have been feasting with mine enemy,

where on a sudden one hath wounded me

that's by me wounded.

Both our remedies within thy help

and holy physic lies.

Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift.

Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.

Then plainly know

my heart's dear love is set

on the fair daughter of rich Capulet.

We met, we wooed,

we made exchange of vow.

I'll tell thee as we pass, but this I pray,

that thou consent to marry us today.

Holy Saint Francis!

What a change is here!

Is Rosaline, that thou didst love

so dear, so soon forsaken?

Young men's love then lies not truly

in their hearts, but in their eyes.

Thou chid'st me oft for loving Rosaline.

For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.

I pray thee...

chide me not!

Her I love now doth grace for grace

and love for love allow.

The other did not so.

Yes, she well knew...

thy love did read by rote,

that could not spell.

Maybe I'm just like my mother

She's never satisfied

For this alliance may so happy prove

to turn your households' rancor

to pure love.

This is what it sounds like

When doves cry

Come, young waverer, come, go with me.

In one respect I'll thy assistant be.

For this alliance may so happy prove

to turn your households' rancor

to pure love.

O let us hence! I stand on sudden haste!

Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast.

Maybe I'm just too demanding

Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold

Maybe I'm just like my mother

She's never satisfied

Why do we scream at each other?

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