Romeo and Juliet Page #2

Whither should they come?

- Up.

- Whither?

- To supper, to our house.

- To whose house?

- My master's.

- Yes, indeed,

I should have asked you that before.

Now I'll tell you without asking.

My master is the great rich Capulet.

And if you be not

of the House of Montague,

I pray, come and crush a cup of wine.

Rest you merry.

At this same ancient feast of Capulet's

sups the fair Rosaline

whom thou so lov'st

with all the admired beauties of Verona.

Go thither, and with unattainted eye

compare her face

with some that I shall show.

- I will make thee think thy swan a crow.

- One fairer than my love?

The all-seeing sun ne'er saw her match

since first the world begun.

I'll go along, no such sight to be shown,

but to rejoice in splendor of mine own.

- Mercutio.

- Come, supper is served.

I shall not budge.

- Come, let's away.

- I shall not budge for no man's pleasure.

Give me a torch. I am not for this ambling.

Nay, gentle Romeo,

we must have you dance.

Not I, believe me.

You have dancing shoes with nimble soles.

I have a soul of lead so stakes me

to the ground I cannot move.

You are a lover, borrow Cupid's wings

and soar with them

above a common bound.

Come, let us enter, and no sooner in,

but every man betake him to his legs.

And we mean well

in going to this masque.

- But 'tis no wit to go.

- Why, may one ask?

I dream'd a dream last night.

- And so did I.

- What was yours?

That dreamers often lie.

In bed asleep,

while they do dream things true.

O, then,

I see Queen Mab hath been with you.

She is the fairies' midwife,

and she comes in shape

no bigger than an agate stone

upon the forefinger of an alderman.

Drawn with a team of little atomies

athwart men's noses as they lie asleep.

Her wagon spokes

made of long spinner's legs.

The covers, of the wings of grasshoppers.

The traces, of the smallest spider's web.

The collars,

of the moonshine's watery beams.

Her whip, of cricket's bone.

The lash, of film.

Her waggoner, a small gray-coated gnat,

not half so big as a round little worm

prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid.

Her chariot is an empty hazelnut,

made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,

time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers.

And in this state

she gallops night by night

through lovers' brains,

and then they dream on love.

O'er courtiers' knees,

who dream on curtsies straight.

O'er lawyers' fingers

who straight dream on fees.

O'er ladies lips,

who straight on kisses dream.

Sometimes she gallops

o'er a courtier's nose,

and then dreams he of smelling out a suit.

And sometimes come she

with a tithe-pig's tail

tickling a parson's nose as he lies asleep,

then dreams he of another benefice.

Sometimes she driveth

o'er a soldier's neck,

and then dreams he of cutting foreign

throats, of breaches, ambuscadoes,

Spanish blades,

of healths five fathom deep.

And then anon drums in his ears,

at which he starts and wakes,

and being thus frighted swears a prayer

or two and sleeps again.

- This is that very Mab. This is she...

- Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace.

Thou talk'st of nothing.

True, I talk of dreams,

which are the children of an idle brain,

begot of nothing but vain fantasy,

as thin of substance as the air,

and more inconstant than the wind.

This wind you talk of

blows us from ourselves.

Supper is done

and we shall come too late.

I fear, too early.

For my mind misgives some consequence

yet hanging in the stars

shall bitterly begin his fearful date

with this night's revels.

But he, that hath the steerage

of my course, direct my sail.

On, lusty gentlemen.

Strike drum.

Welcome, gentlemen.

I have seen the day

that I have worn a visor,

and could tell a whispering tale

in a fair lady's ear,

such as would please.

'Tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone.

You are welcome, gentlemen.

The fair Rosaline whom thou so lov'st.

She hath forsworn to love.

Thou canst not teach me to forget.

What lady's that which doth enrich

the hand of yonder knight?

I know not, sir.

Oh, she doth teach

the torches to burn bright.

It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night

like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear.

Did my heart love till now?

Forswear it, sight.

For I ne'er saw true

beauty till this night.

This, by his voice, should be a Montague.

Fetch me my rapier, boy.

What? Dares the slave come hither

cover'd with an antic face

to fleer and scorn at our solemnity?

Why, how now, kinsman?

Wherefore storm you so?

Uncle, this is a Montague.

Our foe,

a villain that is hither come in spite

to scorn at our solemnity this night.

- Young Romeo, is it?

- 'Tis he, that villain Romeo.

Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone.

I wouldn't for the wealth of all this town

here in my house do him disparagement.

Therefore be patient, take no note of him.

- I'll not endure him.

- He shall be endur'd.

What, goodman boy. I say, he shall.

Go to. Am I the master here or you?

Go to. You'll not endure him.

- Why, Uncle, 'tis a shame.

- Go to. Go to.

You are a saucy boy.

I will withdraw.

But this intrusion shall, now

seeming sweet, convert to bitterest gall.

If I profane with my unworthiest hand

this holy shrine,

the gentle fine is this.

My lips, two blushing pilgrims,

ready stand to smooth that rough touch

with a tender kiss.

Good pilgrim,

you do wrong your hand too much.

For saints have hands

that pilgrims' hands do touch,

and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.

Have not saints lips,

and holy palmers, too?

Ay, pilgrim,

lips that they must use in prayer.

O, then, dear saint,

let lips do what hands do.

They pray, grant thou,

lest faith turn to despair.

Saints do not move,

though grant for prayers' sake.

Then move not,

while my prayers' effect I take.

Thus from my lips by thine,

my sin is purged.

Then have my lips the sin

that they have took.

Sin from my lips?

Oh, trespass sweetly urged.

Give me my sin again.

Madam.

Madam.

Your mother craves a word with you.

What is her mother?

Marry, bachelor,

her mother is the lady of the house,

and a good lady, and a wise, and virtuous.

I nursed her daughter

that you talked withal.

Is she a Capulet?

O dear account.

My life is my foe's debt.

Away, be gone. The sport is at the best.

Ay, so I fear. The more is my unrest.

Come hither, nurse.

What is yond gentleman?

The son and heir of old Tiberio.

What's he that now is going out of door?

Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio.

What's he that follows there?

- I know not.

- Go, ask his name.

His name is Romeo, and a Montague.

- The only son of your great enemy.

- A Montague?

My only love sprung from my only hate.

Too early seen unknown,

- and known too late.

- What's this, what's this?

A rhyme I learned e'en now

of one I danced withal.

Come, let's away.

The strangers all are gone.

Romeo.

Romeo. My cousin, Romeo.

He is wise, and, on my life,

hath stolen him home to bed.

He ran this way. Call, good Mercutio.

Nay, I'll conjure, too.

Romeo. Humors. Madman. Passion. Lover.

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