Romeo and Juliet Page #2

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the siege of loving

terms, Nor bide

the encounter of

assailing eyes,

O, she is rich in

beauty, only poor,

That when she dies

with beauty

dies her store.

She is too fair,

too wise, wisely too

fair, To merit

bliss by making me

despair:
She hath

forsworn to love,

and in that vow Do I

live dead that live

to tell it now.

Tut, man, one

fire burns out

another's burning,

One pain is lessen'd

by another's

anguish;

Turn giddy,

and be holp by

backward turning;

One desperate

grief cures with

another's languish:

Take thou some new

infection to thy

eye, And the rank

poison of the

old will die.

Be ruled by me, forget

to think of her.

O, teach me how

I should forget

to think.

Examine

other beauties.

Farewell:
thou

canst not teach me

to forget.

One fairer

than my love!

the all-seeing sun

Ne'er saw her match

since first the

world begun.

Juliet, the

county stays.

Go, girl, seek

happy nights to

happy days.

Welcome, gentlemen!

ladies that have

their toes Unplagued

with corns will have

a bout with you.

Ah ha, my mistresses!

which of you all

Will now deny to dance?

Romeo is here.

Romeo?

Yes sir.

Uncle, this is a

Montague, our foe,

A villain that

is hither come in

spite, To scorn at our

solemnity this night

My fair ladies.

my noble lords, now

the musicians of

center Rome, will

pay for you the

beautiful galliard.

Young

Romeo is it?

'Tis he, that

villain Romeo.

I would not for

the wealth of all

the town Here in

my house do him

disparagement:

Therefore be

patient, take

no note of him:

I'll not endure him.

He shall be endured:

I have seen the

day That I have worn

a visor and could

tell A whispering

tale in a fair

lady's ear,

For shame!

I'll make you quiet.

What, cheerly,

my hearts!

Put on the mask.

Leave this

place at once.

Go.

O, she doth teach

the torches to

burn bright!

It seems she hangs

upon the cheek of

night Like a

rich jewel in an

Ethiope's ear;

Beauty too rich for

use, for earth

too dear!

What lady is that,

which doth enrich

the hand Of

yonder knight?

I know not, sir.

The measure done,

I'll watch her place

of stand, And,

touching hers,

make blessed

my rude hand.

Shall we rest?

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, Which

mannerly devotion

shows in this; 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.

Madam, your

mother craves a word

with you.

Who is her mother?

Marry, bachelor,

Her mother is the

lady of the house,

Is she a Capulet?

Where's he gone?

Where?

Go ask his name:

if he be married.

My grave is like to

be my wedding bed.

His name

is Romeo, and a

Montague; The

only son of your

great enemy.

My only love

sprung from my

only hate!

My life is

my foe's debt.

Can I go forward

when my heart

is here?

Where the devil

should this Romeo be?

Came he not

home to-night?

Ah, that same pale

hard-hearted wench,

that Rosaline.

Torments him so, that

he will sure run mad.

Romeo, my cousin Romeo!

The fool is gone.

He is mad.

He is wise; And,

on my lie, hath

stol'n him home to bed.

Call, call, call!

Call, good Mercutio.

Call?

Nay, I'll conjure too.

Romeo! humours!

madman! passion! lover!

Appear thou in the

likeness of a sigh:

Speak but one rhyme,

and I am satisfied;

Hey! Come!

I conjure thee by

Rosaline's bright

eyes, By her high

forehead and her

scarlet lips, By her

fine foot, straight

leg and quivering

thigh And the

demesnes that

there adjacent lie,

And if he hear thee,

thou wilt anger him.

This cannot anger

him:
my invocation

Is fair and honest,

and in his mistres s'

name I conjure only

but to raise up him.

Come, shall we go?

Go, then; for 'tis

in vain To seek him

here that means

not to be found.

Blind is his love and

best befits the dark.

If love be blind,

love cannot hit

the mark.

He jests at scars

that never felt

a wound

But, soft!

what light through

yonder window breaks?

O Romeo, Romeo!

wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy father and

refuse thy name;

'Tis but thy name

that is my enemy;

Thou art thyself,

though not a

Montague.

What's Montague?

it is nor hand, nor

foot, Nor arm, nor

face, nor any other

part Belonging

to a man.

O, be some other name!

that which we call

a rose By any other

name would

smell as sweet;

Romeo, doff thy name,

And for that name

which is no part of

thee Take all myself.

I take thee at

thy word:
Call me but

love, and I'll be new

baptized; Henceforth

I never will be Romeo.

What man art thou

By a name I know

not how to tell thee

who I am:
My name,

dear saint, is

hateful to myself,

Because it is an

enemy to thee; Had I

it written, I would

tear the word.

My ears have not

yet drunk a hundred

words Of that

tongue's utterance,

yet I know the sound:

Art thou not Romeo

and a Montague?

Neither, fair

saint, if either

thee dislike.

How camest thou

hither, tell me,

and wherefore?

The orchard walls

are high and hard

to climb,

With love's

light wings did I

o'er-perch these

walls; For stony

limits cannot hold

love out, Therefore

thy kinsmen are

no let to me.

If they do see

thee, they will

murder thee.

I have night's

cloak to hide me from

their sight; And but

thou love me, let

them find me here:

My life were better

ended by their hate,

Than death prorogued,

wanting of thy love.

By whose direction

found'st thou out

this place?

By love, who first

did prompt me to

inquire; He lent me

counsel and I lent

him eyes.

Dost thou love me?

I know thou wilt say

'Ay,' And I will take

thy word:
yet if thou

swear'st, Thou mayst

prove false; O

gentle Romeo, If thou

dost love, pronounce

it faithfully:
In

truth, fair Montague,

I am too fond, And

therefore thou mayst

think my 'havior

light:
But trust me,

gentleman, I'll prove

more true Than

those that have more

cunning to

be strange.

Do not impute this

yielding to light

love, Which the

dark night hath

so discovered.

Lady, by yonder

blessed moon I swear

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, And

I'll believe thee.

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!

as sweet repose and

rest Come to thy

heart as that

within my breast!

O, wilt thou leave

me so unsatisfied?

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