But old folks, many feign as they were dead-
Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.
Enter Nurse [and Peter].
O God, she comes! O honey nurse, what news?
Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.
Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate.
[Exit Peter.]
Jul. Now, good sweet nurse- O Lord, why look'st thou sad?
Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily;
If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news
By playing it to me with so sour a face.
Nurse. I am aweary, give me leave awhile.
Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunce have I had!
Jul. I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news.
Nay, come, I pray thee speak. Good, good nurse, speak.
Nurse. Jesu, what haste! Can you not stay awhile?
Do you not see that I am out of
breath?
Jul. How art thou out of
breath when thou hast
breathTo say to me that thou art out of
breath?
The excuse that thou dost make in this delay
Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse.
Is thy news good or bad? Answer to that.
Say either, and I'll stay the circumstance.
Let me be satisfied, is't good or bad?
Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to
choose a man. Romeo? No, not he. Though his face be better than
any man's, yet his leg excels all men's; and for a hand and a
foot, and a body, though they be not to be talk'd on, yet they
are past compare. He is not the flower of
courtesy, but, I'll
warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, wench; serve God.
What, have you din'd at home?
Jul. No, no. But all this did I know before.
What says he of our marriage? What of that?
Nurse. Lord, how my head aches! What a head have I!
It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.
My back o' t' other side,- ah, my back, my back!
Beshrew your heart for sending me about
To catch my death with jauncing up and down!
Jul. I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.
Sweet, sweet, Sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love?
Nurse. Your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a courteous,
and a kind, and a handsome; and, I
warrant, a virtuous- Where is
your mother?
Jul. Where is my mother? Why, she is within.
Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest!
'Your love says, like an honest gentleman,
"Where is your mother?"'
Nurse. O God's Lady dear!
Are you so hot? Marry come up, I trow.
Is this the poultice for my aching bones?
Henceforward do your messages yourself.
Jul. Here's such a coil! Come, what says Romeo?
Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day?
Jul. I have.
Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence' cell;
There stays a husband to make you a wife.
Now comes the
wanton blood up in your cheeks:
They'll be in
scarlet straight at any news.
Hie you to church; I must another way,
To fetch a
ladder, by the which your love
Must climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark.
I am the drudge, and toil in your delight;
But you shall bear the burthen soon at night.
Go; I'll to dinner; hie you to the cell.
Jul. Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse,
farewell.
Exeunt.
Scene VI.
Friar Laurence's cell.
Enter Friar [Laurence] and Romeo.
Friar. So smile the heavens upon this holy act
That after-hours with sorrow chide us not!
Rom. Amen, amen! But come what sorrow can,
It cannot countervail the exchange of joy
That one short minute gives me in her sight.
Do thou but close our hands with holy words,
Then love-devouring death do what he dare-
It is enough I may but call her mine.
Friar. These
violent delights have
violent ends
And in their
triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which, as they kiss,
consume. The sweetest honey
Is
loathsome in his own deliciousness
And in the taste confounds the appetite.
Therefore love
moderately: long love doth so;
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
Enter Juliet.
Here comes the lady. O, so light a foot
Will ne'er wear out the
everlasting flint.
A lover may bestride the gossamer
That idles in the
wanton summer air,
And yet not fall; so light is vanity.
Jul. Good even to my
ghostly confessor.
Friar. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.
Jul. As much to him, else is his thanks too much.
Rom. Ah, Juliet, if the
measure of thy joy
Be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more
To blazon it, then
sweeten with thy
breathThis neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue
Unfold the imagin'd happiness that both
Receive in either by this dear encounter.
Jul. Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,
Brags of his substance, not of ornament.
They are but beggars that can count their worth;
But my true love is grown to such excess
cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.
Friar. Come, come with me, and we will make short work;
For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone
Till Holy Church
incorporate two in one.
[Exeunt.]
ACT III. Scene I.
A public place.
Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, and Men.
Ben. I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire.
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad.
And if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,
For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.
Mer. Thou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the
confines of a
tavern, claps me his sword upon the table and says
'God send me no need of thee!' and by the operation of the second
cup draws him on the
drawer, when indeed there is no need.
Ben. Am I like such a fellow?
Mer. Come, come, thou art as hot a jack in thy mood as any in
Italy; and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be
moved.
Ben. And what to?
Mer. Nay, an there were two such, we should have none
shortly, for
one would kill the other. Thou! why, thou wilt quarrel with a man
that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast.
Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other
reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye
would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as
an egg is full of meat; and yet thy head hath been
beaten as
addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrell'd with a man
for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that
hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a
tailor for wearing his new
doublet before Easter, with another
for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou wilt
tutor me from quarrelling!
Ben. An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy
the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter.
Mer. The fee simple? O simple!
Enter Tybalt and others.
Ben. By my head, here come the Capulets.
Mer. By my heel, I care not.
Tyb. Follow me close, for I will speak to them.
Gentlemen, good den. A word with one of you.
Mer. And but one word with one of us?
Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow.
Tyb. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me
occasion.
Mer. Could you not take some occasion without giving
Tyb. Mercutio, thou
consortest with Romeo.
Mer. Consort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? An thou make
minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords. Here's my
fiddlestick; here's that shall make you dance. Zounds,
consort!
Ben. We talk here in the public haunt of men.
Either
withdraw unto some private place
And reason
coldly of your grievances,
Or else depart. Here all eyes gaze on us.
Mer. Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.
I will not budge for no man's pleasure,
Enter Romeo.
Tyb. Well, peace be with you, sir. Here comes my man.
Mer. But I'll be hang'd, sir, if he wear your livery.
Marry, go before to field, he'll be your follower!
Your
worship in that sense may call him man.
Tyb. Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford
No better term than this: thou art a
villain.
Rom. Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee
Doth much excuse the appertaining rage
To such a greeting. Villain am I none.
Therefore
farewell. I see thou knowest me not.
Tyb. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries
That thou hast done me;
therefore turn and draw.
Rom. I do protest I never injur'd thee,
But love thee better than thou canst devise
Till thou shalt know the reason of my love;
And so good Capulet, which name I tender
As
dearly as mine own, be satisfied.
Mer. O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!
Alla stoccata carries it away. [Draws.]
Tybalt, you ratcatcher, will you walk?
Tyb. What wouldst thou have with me?
Mer. Good King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives. That I
mean to make bold
withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter,
dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of
his
pitcher by the ears? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears
ere it be out.
Tyb. I am for you. [Draws.]
Rom. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.
Mer. Come, sir, your passado!
[They fight.]
Rom. Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.
Gentlemen, for shame!
forbear this outrage!
Tybalt, Mercutio, the Prince
expressly hath
Forbid this bandying in Verona streets.
Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!
Tybalt under Romeo's arm thrusts Mercutio in, and flies
[with his Followers].
Mer. I am hurt.
A
plague o' both your houses! I am sped.
Is he gone and hath nothing?