Romeo and Juliet

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Two households,

both alike in dignity,

In fair Verona,

where we lay our scene,

From ancient grudge

break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes

civil hands unclean.

From forth the fatal

loins of these two foes

A pair of star-cross'd

lovers take their life;

Whose misadventured

piteous overthrows Do

with their death bury

their parents' strife.

The fearful passage of

their death-mark'd love,

And the continuance of

their parents' rage,

Which, but their

children's end,

nought could remove,

Is now the two hours'

traffic of our stage;

The which if you with

patient ears attend,

What here shall miss,

our toil shall

strive to mend.

I strike quickly,

being moved.

But thou art

not quickly moved

to strike.

A dog of the

house of Montague

moves me.

To move is

to stir;

and to be valiant is

to stand:
therefore,

if thou art moved,

thou runn'st away.

A dog of that house

shall move me to

stand:
I will take

the wall of any

man or maid

of Montague's.

That shows

thee a weak slave;

for the weakest

goes to the wall.

Tis true; and

therefore women,

being the weaker

vessels, are ever

thrust to the wall:

Here comes two

of the house of

the Montagues.

Quarrel, quarrel,

I will

back thee.

How! turn

thy back and run?

I will bite

my thumb at them;

which is a disgrace to

them, if they bear it.

Do you bite your

thumb at us, sir?

I do bite my

thumb, sir.

Do you bite your

thumb at us, sir?

Come, come,

come, come.

Come! RUN!

Abraham.

Open there.

Open, Open.

Open!

What, art thou

drawn among these

heartless hinds?

Turn thee, Benvolio,

look upon thy death.

A servant of the

Capulets has killed

Abraham. Abraham

has benn killed

at the hands

of a Capulet!

What's this?

Abraham!

Abraham! Abraham!

Where's my man?

Where's my man!

What noise

is this?

Abraham is dead.

Give me my sword!

Give me my

long sword, ho!

Rebellious subjects,

enemies to peace,

Profaners of this

neighbour-stained steel,

Will they not hear?

What, ho!

you men, you beasts,

That quench the fire of

your pernicious rage

With purple fountains

issuing from your veins,

Three civil brawls,

bred of an airy word,

By thee, old Capulet,

and Montague,

Have thrice disturb'd

the quiet of our streets,

On pain of torture,

from those bloody hands

Throw your mistemper'd

weapons to the ground,

And hear the sentence

of your moved prince.

If ever you disturb

our streets again,

Your lives shall pay the

forfeit of the peace.

Good-morrow,

cousin.

Is the

day so young?

But new

struck nine.

Ay me!

sad hours seem long.

What sadness

lengthens Romeo's hours?

Not having

that, which, having,

makes them short.

In love?

Out--

Of love?

Out

of her favour,

where I am in love.

Alas, that

love, so gentle in his

view, Should be so

tyrannous and rough

in proof!

Alas, that love,

whose view is

muffled still, Should,

without eyes, see

pathways to his will!

Why, then, O

brawling love!

O loving hate!

O any thing, of

nothing first create!

O heavy lightness!

serious vanity!

Dost thou not laugh?

No, coz, I

rather weep.

Good

heart, at what?

At thy good

heart's oppression.

Why, such is

love's transgression.

This love that

thou hast shown

Doth add more grief to

too much of mine own.

Farewell, my coz.

Soft!

I will go along;

An if you leave me

so, you do me wrong.

Tut, I

have lost myself;

I am not here;

This is not Romeo,

he's some other where.

Tell me in sadness,

who is that you love.

Bid a sick man

in sadness make his will:

Ah, word ill urged

to one that is so ill!

Juliet!

How now!

who calls?

Your mother.

Come now, quick, quick!

Madam,

I am here.

What is your will?

This is the matter:

--nurse, give leave awhile,

We must talk in secret:

--nurse, come back again;

I have remember'd

me, thou's hear

our counsel.

Thou know'st my

daughter's of

a pretty age.

Faith, I

can tell her age

unto an hour.

How long is it now

To Lammas-tide?

Even or odd, of

all days in the year,

Come Lammas-eve at night

shall she be fourteen.

Susan and she--God rest

all Christian souls!

Were of an age:
well,

Susan is with God;

She was too good for

me:
but, as I said,

On Lammas-eve at night

shall she be fourteen;

That shall she, marry;

I remember it well.

'Tis since the

earthquake now eleven

years; And she

was wean'd,

--I never shall

forget it,

For then she could

stand alone;

nay, by the rood,

She could have run and

waddled all about; For

even the day before,

she broke her brow:

And then my husband

God be with his soul!

A' was a merry man--took

up the child:
'Yea,

' quoth he, 'dost thou

fall upon thy face?

Thou wilt fall backward

when thou hast more wit;

Wilt thou not, Jule?'

and, by my holidame,

The pretty wretch left

crying and said 'Ay.'

I warrant, an I should

live a thousand years,

I never should forget

it:
'Wilt thou not,

Jule?' quoth he;

And, pretty fool, it

stinted and said 'Ay.'

And stint thou too,

I pray thee, nurse,

say I.

Peace,

I have done.

God mark thee

to his grace!

An I might live to

see thee married once,

I have my wish.

Marry, that 'marry'

is the very

theme I came to talk of.

Tell me, daughter

Juliet, How

stands your disposition

to be married?

To marry?

It is an honour

that I dream not of.

An honour!

were not I thine

only nurse,

I would say thou

hadst suck'd wisdom

from thy teat.

Well, think of

marriage now;

younger than you,

Here in Verona,

ladies of esteem, Are

made already mothers.

Thus then in brief:

The valiant Paris seeks

you for his love.

But saying o'er

what I have said

before:
My child is

yet a stranger in

the world; She hath

not seen the change

of fourteen years,

Let two more summers

wither in their

pride, Ere we may

think her ripe

to be a bride.

Younger than

she are happy

mothers made.

And too soon

marr'd are those

so early made.

The earth hath

swallow'd all my

hopes but she, But

woo her, gentle

Paris, get her

heart, This night

I hold an old

accustom'd feast,

Whereto I have

invited many a

guest, Such as I

love; and you, among

the store, One more,

most welcome, makes

my number more.

But my will to her

consent is but a part.

Madam, Juliet.

Come quickly.

What say you?

can you love

the gentleman?

This night you shall

behold him at our

feast; Read o'er

the volume of young

Paris' face, And

find delight writ

there with

beauty's pen;

I'll look to

like, if looking

liking move:
But

no more deep will I

endart mine eye Than

your consent gives

strength

to make it fly.

At this same

ancient feast of

Capulet's Sups the

fair Rosaline whom

thou so lovest,

I aim'd so near,

when I supposed

you loved.

A right fair

mark, fair coz,

is soonest hit.

Good evening

my lord.

Well, in that

hit you miss:

She'll not be hit

with Cupid's arrow;

she hath Dian's wit;

And, in strong proof

of chastity well

arm'd, From love's

weak childish bow

she lives unharm'd.

She will not stay

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