University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The Street.
Enter Romeo alone.
Romeo.
Can I go forward when my heart is here?
Turn back, dull earth, and find thy center out.

[Exit,
Enter Benvolio with Mercutio.
Ben.
Romeo, my cousin Romeo.

Mer.
He is wife,
And on my life hath stol'n him home to bed.

Ben.
He ran this way, and leap'd this orchard wall.
Call, good Mercutio.

Mer.
Nay, I'll conjure too.
Why, Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover!
Appear thou in the likeness of a Sigh,
Speak but one Rhime, and I am satisfied.
Cry but Ah me! couple but love and dove,
Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,
One nick-name to her purblind son and heir;
I conjure thee by thy mistress's bright eyes,
By her high forehead, and her scarlet lip,
By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,
And the demeasus that there adjacent lie,
That in thy likeness thou appear to us.

Ben.
An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.

Mer.
This cannot anger him: 'twould anger him
To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle
'Till she had laid it. My invocation is
Honest and fair, and in his mistress' name,
I conjure only but to raise him up.

Ben.
Come, he hath hid himself among these trees,
To be consorted with the hum'rous night.

Mer.
Romeo, good night, I'll to my truckle bed,
This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep:
Come, shall we go?

Ben.
Go then, for 'tis in vain
To seek him here that means not to be found.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Garden.
Enter Romeo.
Rom.
He jests at scars that never felt a wound—
But soft, what light thro' yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!
[Juliet appears above at a window.
Arise, fair fun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.
She speaks, yet she says nothing; what of that?
Her eye discourses, I will answer it;
I am too bold—Oh were those eyes in heav'n,
They'd through the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing and think it were the morn:
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!

Jul.
Ah me!

Rom.
She speaks, she speaks!
Oh speak again, bright angel, for thou art
As glorious to this sight
As is a winged messenger from heav'n,
To the upturn'd wondering eyes of mortals
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.

Jul.
O Romeo, Romeo—wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name:
Or if thou will not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.

Rom.
Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

[Aside.
Jul.
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art not thyself so, tho' a Montague.
What's in a name? that which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet.
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes,
Without that title; Romeo, quit thy name,
And for that name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.

Rom.
I take thee at thy word:
Call me but love, I will forsake my name,
And never more be Romeo.

Jul.
What man art thou, that thus bescreen'd in night
So stumblest on my counsel?

Rom.
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.

Jul.
My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words
Of that tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound.
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

Rom.
Neither, fair saint, if either thee displease.

Jul.
How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and for what?
The orchard-walls are high, and hard to climb,
And the place death, considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen find thee here.

Rom.
With love's light wings did I o'er-perch 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.

Jul.
If they do see thee, they will murder thee.

Rom.
Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye,
Than twenty of their swords; look thou but sweet,
And I am proof against their enmity.

Jul.
I would not for the world they saw thee here,
By whose direction found'st thou out this place?

Rom.
By love, that first did prompt me to enquire,
He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes:
I am no pilot, yet wert thou as far
As that vast shore, wash'd with the farthest sea,
I would adventure for such merchandise.

Jul.
Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face,
Elie would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak to night.
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny
What I have spoke—but farewel 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; at lovers perjuries
They say Jove laughs. Oh gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:
Or if thou think I am too quickly won,
I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo: but else not for the world.
In truth, fair Mountague, I am too fond;
And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light:
But trust me, gentleman. I'll prove more true,
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou over-heard'st, ere I was ware,
My true love's passion; therefore pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered.

Rom.
Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow—

Jul.
O swear not by the moon, th'inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb;
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

Rom.
What shall I swear by?

Jul.
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.

Rom.
If my true heart's love—

Jul.
Well, do not swear—although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to night;
It is too rash, too unadvis'd, 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—as sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart, as that within my breast.

Rom.
O wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

Jul.
What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?

Rom.
Th'exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.

Jul.
I gave thee mine before thou didst request it:
And yet I would it were to give again.

Rom.
Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?

Jul.
But to be frank, and give it thee again.
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
I hear some noise within; dear love, adieu.
[Nurse calls within.
Anon, good Nurse—Sweet Mountague, be true;
Stay but a little, I will come again.

[Exit.
Rom.
O blessed, blessed night. I am afraid
All this is but a dream! being in Night,
Too flattering sweet to be substantial.

Re-enter Juliet above.
Jul.
Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed:
If that thy bent of love be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to morrow,
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 love, throughout the world.
[Within: Madam.
I come, anon—but if thou mean'st not well,
I do beseech thee— [Within: Madam.]
By and by I come—
To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief.
To morrow will I send.

Rom.
So thrive my soul.

Jul.
A thousand times good night.

[Exit.
Rom.
A thousand times the worse to want thy light.

Enter Juliet again.
Jul.
Hist! Romeo, hist! O for a falkner's voice,
To lure his Tassel gentle back again—
Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud,
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,
And make her angry tongue more hoarse than mine
With repetition of my Romeo.

Rom.
It is my love that calls upon my name.
How silver-sweet sound lovers tongues by night,
Like softest musick to attending ears!

Jul.
Romeo!

Rom.
My sweet!

Jul.
At what a clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee?

Rom.
By the hour of nine.

Jul.
I will not fail, 'tis twenty years 'till then,—
I have forgot why I did call thee back.

Rom.
Let me stand here 'till thou remember it.

Jul.
I shall forget to have thee still stand there,
Remembring how I love thy Company.

Rom.
And I'll stay here, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.

Jul.
'Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone,
And yet no further than a Wanton's bird,
That lets it hop a little from her hand,
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving jealous of his liberty.

Rom.
I would I were thy bird.

Jul.
Sweet, so would I,
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.
Good night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night 'till it be morrow.

[Exit.
Rom.
Sleep dwell upon thine Eyes, peace in thy breast;
Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!
Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell,
His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

A Monastery.
Enter Friar Lawrence with a basket.
Fri.
The gray-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night,
Check'ring the eastern clouds with streaks of light.
Now ere the sun advance his burning eye,
The day to chear, and night's dank dew to dry,
I must fill up this osier cage of ours
With baleful weeds, and precious juiced flowers.
O mickle 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:
Nor ought so good, but strain'd from that fair use,
Revolts to vice, and stumbles on abuse.
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,
And vice sometimes by actions dignified.
Within the infant rind of this small flower
Poison hath residence, and medicine power:
For this being smelt, with that sense chears each part;
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed foes 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.

Enter Romeo.
Rom.
Good-morrow, father.

Fri.
Benedicite.
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
Young son, it argues a distemper'd head,
So soon to bid good-morrow to thy pillow;
Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,
And where care lodgeth, sleep will never bide;
But where with unstuft brain unbruised youth
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep resides,
Therefore thy earliness assureth me
Thou art up-rouz'd by some distemp'rature;
What is the matter, son?

Rom.
I tell thee ere thou ask it me again;
I have been feasting with mine enemy,
Where to the heart's core one hath wounded me,
That's by me wounded; both our remedies
Within thy help and holy physick lie.

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

Rom.
Then plainly know, my heart's dear love is set
On Juliet, Capulet's fair daughter;
As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine:
When, and where, and how
We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vows,
I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I beg
That thou consent to marry us to day.

Fri.
Holy saint Francis, what a change is here!
But tell me, son, and call thy reason home,
Is not this love the offspring of thy folly,
Bred from thy wantonness and thoughtless brain?
Be heedful, youth, and see you stop betimes,
Left that thy rash ungovernable passions,
O'er-leaping duty, and each due regard,
Hurry thee on, thro' short-liv'd, dear-bought pleasures,
To cureless woes, and lasting Penitence.

Rom.
I pray thee, chide me not, she whom I love,
Doth give me grace for grace, and love for love:
Do thou with heav'n smile upon our union;
Do not withhold thy benediction from us,
But make two hearts, by holy marriage one.

Fri.
Well, come, my pupil, go along with me.
In one respect I'll give thee my assistances;
For this alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your houshold rancour to pure love.

Rom.
O let us hence, Love stands on sudden haste.

Fri.
Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

The Street.
Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.
Mer.

Where the devil should this Romeo be?
came he not home to night?

Ben.

Not to his father's; I spoke with his man.

Mer.

Why that same pale hard-hearted wench, that
Rosaline, torments him so, that he will sure run mad.

Ben.

Tibalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, hath sent
a letter to his father's house.

Mer.

A challenge, on my life.

Ben.

Romeo will answer it.

Mer.

Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead! stabb'd
with a white wench's black eye, run through the ear
with a love-song, the very pin of his heart cleft with the
blind bow-boy's but shaft; and is he a man to encounter
Tibalt?

Ben.

Why, what is Tibalt?

Mer.

Oh he's the courageous captain of compliments;
he fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and
proportion; rests his minum, one, two, and the third in
your bosom; the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist,
a duellist; a gentleman of the very first house, of the

first and second cause; ah the immortal passado, the
punto reverso, the hay—

Ben.

The what?

Mer.

The pox of such antick lisping affected phantasies,
these new tuners of accents:—Jesu, a very
good blade,—a very tall man—a very good
whore.—Why, is not this a lamentable thing,
grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these
strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardonnez-moy's?

Ben.

Here comes Romeo.

Mer.

Without his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh,
flesh, how art thou fishified? Now is he for the numbers
that Petarch flowed in: Laura to his lady was but a
kitchen-wench; marry she had a better love to berime
her: Dido a dowdy, Cleopatra a gipsie, Helen and Hero
hildings and harlots: Thisbe a gray eye or so, but not to
the purpose.

Enter Romeo.
Signior Romeo, bonjour, there's a French salutation for you.

Rom.

Good morrow to you both.

Mer.

You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.

Rom.

What counterfeit did I give you?

Mer.

The slip, Sir, the slip: can you not conceive?

Rom.

Pardon, Mercutio, my business was great, and in
such a case as mine, a man may strain curtesy.

Enter Nurse and her Man.
Rom.

A sayle! a sayle.

Mer.

Two, two, a shirt and a smock.

Nurse.

Peter.

Pet.

Anon,

Nurse.

My fan, Peter.

Mer.

Do, good Peter, to hide her face.

Nurse.

God ye good-morrow, gentlemen.

Mer.

God ye good den, fair gentlewoman.

Nurse.

Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I
may find young Romeo?

Rom.

I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a
worse.

Nurse.
You say well.
If you be he, sir,
I desire some confidence with you.

Ben:
She will indite him to supper presently.

Mer.
A bawd, a bawd, a bawd: So ho.

Rom.
What hast thou found?

Mar.

No hare, Sir, but a bawd. Romeo, will you
come to your father's we'll to dinner thither.

Rom.

I will follow you.

Mar.

Farewel, ancient lady.

[Exeunt Mercutio, Benvolio.
Nurse.

I pray you, Sir, what saucy merchant was
this that was so full of his roguery?

Rom.

A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself
talk, and will speak more in a minute, than he will stand
to in a month.

Nurse.

An' a speak any thing against me, I'll take
him down an' he were lustier than he is, and twenty such
jacks: and if I cannot. I'll find those that shall. Scurvy
knave, I am none of his flirt-gills; and thou must stand
by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure.

[To her man.
Pet.

I saw no man use you at his pleasure: if I had,
my weapon should quickly have been out, I warrant you.
I dare draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in
a good quarrel, and the law on my side.

Nurse.

Now, afore God, I am so vext, that every
part about me quivers—Scurvy knave! Pray you,
Sir, a word: and as I told you, my young lady bid me
enquire you out. What she bid me say, I will keep to
myself: but first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her
into fool's paradise, as they say, it were a very gross
kind of behaviour, as they say; for the gentlewoman is
young, and therefore if you should deal double with her,
truly it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman.

Rom.

Commend me to thy lady and mistress, I protest
unto thee—

Nurse.

Good heart, and i'faith I will tell her as much;
Lord, lord, she will be a joyful woman.

Rom.

What wilt thou tell her, nurse? thou dost not
mark me.

Nurse.

I will tell her, Sir, that you do protest; which,
as I take it, is a gentleman-like offer.

Rom.

Bid her device some means to come to shrift this
afternoon.

And there she shall at friar Lawrence's cell
Be shriv'd and married; here's for thy pains.

Nurse.
No truly, Sir, not a penny.

Rom.
Go to, I say, you shall.

Nurse.
This afternoon, Sir? well, she shall be there.

Rom.
And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey-wall:
Within this hour my man shall be with thee,
And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair,
Which to the high top gallant of my joy
Must be my convoy in the secret night.
Farewel, be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains.

Nurse.

Well, Sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady;
lord, lord, when t'was a little prating thing—O,
there is a noble man in town, one Paris, that would fain
lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lieve see a
toad, a very toad, as see him: I anger her sometimes,
and tell her that Paris is the properer man; but I'll warrant
you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any clout in
the versal world.

Rom.
Commend me to my lady—
[Exit Romeo.

Nurse.
A thousand times. Peter?

Pet.
Anon.

Nurse.
Take my fan, and go before.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

Capulet's House.
Enter Juliet.
Jul.
Enter Nurse.

Nurse.
Peter, stay at the gate.

[Exit Peter.
Jul.
How now, sweet Nurse:
O Lord, why look'st thou sad?

Nurse.
I am a weary, let me rest a while;
Fy, how my bones ake, what a jaunt have I had?

Jul.
Nay, come, I pray thee speak—Good nurse, speak.
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: Go thy ways, wench,
serve God—What, have you dined 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 akes? what a head have I?
It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.
My back o't'other side—O my back, my back:
Beshrew your heart, for sending me about,
To catch my death with jaunting up and down.

Jul.
I'faith I'm sorry that thou art so ill.
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 odly thou reply'st!
Your love says like an honest gentleman:
Where is your mother—

Nurse.
O our lady dear,
Are you so hot? marry come up! I trow.
Is this the pultice for my aking bones?
Hence-forward do your messages yourself.

Jul.
Here's such a coil; come, what says Romeo?

Nurse.
Have you got leave to go to shrist to-day?

Jul.
I have.

Nurse.
Then hie you hence to friar Lawrence' cell,
There stays a husband to make you a wife.
Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks—
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 burden soon at night.
Go, I'll to dinner, hie you to the cell.

Jul.
Hie to high fortune:
Honest nurse, farewel.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

The Monastery.
Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.
Fri.
So smile the heav'ns upon this holy act,
That after-hours of sorrow chide us not!

Rom.
Amen, amen, but come what sorrow can,
It cannot countervail th'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.

Fri.
These violent delights have violent ends,
And in their triumph die like fire and powder,
Which as they meet, consume. The sweetest honey
Is loathsome in its own deliciousness,
And in the taste confounds the appetite:
Therefore love mod'rately.
Enter Juliet.
Here comes the lady. O so light a foot
Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint;
A lover may bestride the gossamour,
That idles in the wanton summer air,
And yet not fall, so light is vanity.

Jul.
Good-even to my ghostly confessor.

Fri.
Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.

Rom.
Ah Juliet, if the measure of thy Joy
Be heapt like mine, and that thy skill be more
To blazon it; then sweeten with thy breath
This neighbour air, and let rich musick's tongue
Unfold th'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,
I cannot sum up one half of my wealth.

Fri.
Come, come with me;
For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone,
Till holy church incorp'rate two in one.

[Exeunt.