University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The Street in Verona.
Enter Sampson and Gregory.
Sampson.

Gregory , I strike quickly, being mov'd.

Greg.

But thou art not quickly mov'd to strike.

Sam.

A dog of the house of Mountague moves me.

Greg.

Draw thy tool then, for here come
of that house.

Enter Abram and Balthasar.
Sam.

My naked weapon is out; Quarrel I will back
thee, but—Let us take the law of our sides: let them
begin.

Greg.

I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it
as they list.

Sam.

Nay as they dare. I will bite my thumb at
them, which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it.

Abr.

Do you bite your thumb at us, Sir?

Sam.

I do bite my thumb, Sir.

Abr.

Do you bite your thumb at us, Sir?

Sam.

Is the law on our side, if I say ay?

Greg.

No.

Sam.

No, Sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, Sir:
but I bite my thumb, Sir.

Greg.

Do you quarrel, Sir?

Abr.

Quarrel, Sir? no, Sir.

Sam.

If you do, Sir, I am for you: I serve as good
a man as you.

Abr.

No better, Sir.

Sam.

Well, Sir.

Enter Benvolio.
Greg.

Say better: here comes one of my master's
kinsmen.

Sam.

Yes, better, Sir.

Abr.

You lye.

Sam.

Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy
swashing blow.

[They fight.
Ben.

Part, fools, put up your swords, you know not
what you do.

Enter Tibalt.
Tib.
What, art thou drawn amongst these heartless hinds?
Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.

Ben.
I do but keep the peace; put up thy sword,
Or manage it to part these men with me.

Tib.
What drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word
As I hate hell, all Mountagues and thee:
Have at thee, coward!

[Fight.
Enter three or four citizens with clubs.
Offi.
Clubs, bills, and partisans! strike! beat them down.
Down with the Capulets, down with the Mountagues.

Enter old Capulet in his Gown.
Cap.
What noise is this? give me my sword,
My sword, I say: old Mountague is come,
And flourishes his blade in spite of me.

Enter old Mountague.
Moun.
Thou villain, Capulet—Hold me not, let me go.

Enter Prince, with attendants.
Prin.
Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,
Prophaners of your 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;
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
Throw your mis-temper'd weapons to the ground,
And hear the sentence of your moved prince.
Three civil broils, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet, and Mountague,
Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our state.
If ever you affright our streets again,
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
For this time all the rest depart away,
You, Capulet, shall go along with me;
And Mountague, come you this afternoon,
To know our further pleasure.
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

[Exeunt Prince and Capulet.

SCENE II.

Manent Mountague and Benvolio.
Moun.
Who set this antient quarrel new abroach?
Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?

Ben.
Here were the servants of your adversary,
And yours, close fighting, ere I did approach;
I drew to part them: In the instant came
The fiery Tibalt, with his sword prepar'd,
Which as he breath'd defiance to my ears,
He swung about his head, and cut the winds.
While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,
Came more and more, and fought on part and part,
'Till the Prince came.

Moun.
O where is Romeo?
Right glad am I, he was not at this fray.

Ben.
My lord, an hour before the worshipp'd sun
Peep'd through the golden window of the East,
A troubled mind drew me to walk abroad;
Where underneath the grove of sycamour,
That westward rooteth from this city side,
So early walking did I see your son.
Tow'rds him I made, but he was 'ware of me,
And stole into the covert of the wood.
I measuring his affections by my own,
(That most are busied when they're most alone,)
Pursu'd my humour, not pursuing him,
And gladly shunn'd, who gladly fled from me.

Moun.
Many a morning hath he there been seen
With tears augmenting the fresh morning dew;
But all so soon as the all-chearing sun
Should, in the farthest east, begin to draw
The shady curtains from Aurora's bed;
Away from light steals home my heavy son,
And private in his chamber pens himself;
Shuts up his windows, locks fair day-light out,
And makes himself an artificial night.
Black and portentous must this humour prove,
Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

Ben.
My noble uncle, do you know the cause?

Moun.
I neither know it, nor can learn it of him.

Ben.
Have you importun'd him by any means?

Moun.
Both by myself and many other friends;
But he, his own affection's counsellor,
Is to himself (I will not say how true)
But to himself so secret and so close.
So far from sounding and discovery;
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.

Ben.
So please you, Sir, Mercutio and myself
Are most near to him; be't that our years,
Statures, births, fortunes, studies, inclinations,
Measure the rule of his, I know not; but
Friendship still loves to sort him with his like.
We will attempt upon his privacy,
And could we learn from whence his sorrows grow,
We would as willingly give cure, as knowledge.

Moun.
'Twill bind us to you: good Benvolio, go.

Ben.
We'll know his grievance, or be hard denied.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE III.

Before Capulet's House.
Enter Capulet and Paris.
Cap.
And Mountague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard
For men so old as we to keep the peace.

Par.
Of honourable reck'ning are you both,
And pity 'tis you liv'd at odds so long:
But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?

Cap.
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 eighteen years;
Let two more summers wither in their pride,
Ere we may think her ripe to be a wife.

Par.
Younger than she are happy mothers made.

Cap.
And too soon marr'd are those so early made:
The earth hath swallow'd all my hopes but her.
But woo her, gentle Paris, get her will,
Fortune to her consent is but a part;
If she agree, within her scope of choice
Lies my consent; so woo her gentle Paris.
This night I hold an old accustom'd feast,
Whereto I have invited many a friend,
Such as I love, and you among the rest;
One more most welcome! Come, go in with me.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

A Wood near Verona.
Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.
Mer.
See where he steals—Told I you not, Benvolio,
That we should find this melancholy Cupid
Lock'd in some gloomy covert, under key
Of cautionary silence; with his arms
Threaded, like these cross boughs, in sorrow's knot.

Enter Romeo.
Ben.
Good morrow, Cousin.

Rom.
Is the day so young?

Ben.
But now struck nine.

Rom.
Ah me! sad hours seem long.

Mer.
Prithee. what sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?

Rom.
Not having that, which having makes them short.

Ben.
In love, me seems!
Alas, that love so gentle to the view,
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!

Rom.
Where shall we dine?—O me—Cousin Benvolio,
What was the fray this morning with the Capulets?
Yet, tell me not, for I have heard it all.
Here's much to do with hate, but more with love:
Love, heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
This love feel I; but such my froward fate,
That there I love where most I ought to hate.
Dost thou not laugh, my cousin? Oh Juliet, Juliet!

Ben.
No, coz, I rather weep.

Rom.
Good heart, at what?—

Ben.
At thy good heart's oppression.

Mer.
Tell me in sadness, who she is you love?

Rom.
In sadness then, I love a woman.

Mer.
I aim'd so near, when I suppos'd you lov'd.

Rom.
A right good marksman! and she's fair I love:
But knows not of my love, 'twas thro' my eyes
The shaft empierc'd my heart, chance gave the wound,
Which time can never heal: no star befriends me,
To each sad night succeeds a dismal morrow,
And still 'tis hopeless love, and endless sorrow.

Mer.
Be rul'd by me, forget to think of her.

Rom.
O teach me how I should forget to think

Mer.
By giving liberty unto thine eyes:
Take thou some new infection to thy heart,
And the rank poison of the old will die.
Examine other beauties.

Rom.
He that is strucken blind cannot forget
The precious treasure of his eye-sight lost.
Shew me a mistress that is passing fair;
What doth her beauty serve but as a note,
Remembring me, who past that passing fair;
Farewel, thou canst not teach me to forget.

Mer.
I warrant thee. If thou'lt but stay to hear,
To night there is an ancient splendid feast
Kept by old Capulet, our enemy,
Where all the beauties of Verona meet.

Rom.
At Capulet's!

Mer.
At Capulet's, my friend,
Go there, and with an unattainted eye,
Compare her face with some that I shall show,
And I will make thee think thy swan a raven.

Rom.
When the devout religion of mine eye
Maintains such falshoods, then turn tears to fires;
And burn the hereticks. All-seeing Phœbus
Ne'er saw her match, since first his course began.

Ben.
Tut, tut, you saw her fair, none else being by,
Herself pois'd with herself; but let be weigh'd
Your lady's love against some other fair,
And she will shew scant well.

Rom.
I will along, Mercutio.

Mer.
'Tis well. Look to behold at this high feast,
Earth-treading stars, that make dim heaven's lights.
Hear all, all see, try all; and like her most,
That most shall merit thee.

Rom.
My mind is chang'd—
I will not go to night.

Mer.
Why, may one ask?

Rom.
I dream'd a dream last night.

Mer.
Ha! ha! a dream!
O then I see queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fancy's mid-wife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agat-stone
On the fore-finger of an Alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies,
Athwart mens noses as they lie asleep:
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners legs;
The cover, of the wings of grashoppers;
The traces, of the smallest spider's web;
The collars, of the moonshine's watry 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 hazel-nut,
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 of love;
On courtiers knees, that 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 lawyer's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit:
And sometimes comes she with a tith-pig's tail,
Tickling the Parson 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 Mab—

Rom.
Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace:
Thou talk'st of nothing.

Mer.
True, I talk of dreams;
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing, but vain phantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air,
And more unconstant than the wind.

Ben.
This wind you talk of, blows us from ourselves,
And we shall come too late.

Rom.
I fear too early: for my mind misgives
Some consequence, still hanging in the stars,
From this night's revels.—lead, gallant friends;
Let come what may, once more I will behold,
My Juliet's eyes, drink deeper of affliction:
I'll watch the time, and mask'd from observation
Make known my sufferings, but conceal my name:
Tho' hate and discord 'twixt our sires increase,
Let in our hearts dwell love and endless peace.

[Exeunt Mer. and Ben.

SCENE V.

Capulet's House.
Enter Lady Capulet, and Nurse.
La. Cap.
Nurse, where's my daughter? call her forth to me.

Nurse.

Now (by my maiden-head, at twelve year old)
I bad her come; what lamb, what lady-bird, God forbid
—where's this girl? what, Juliet?

Enter Juliet.
Jul.

How now, who calls?

Nurse.

Your mother.

Jul.

Madam, I am here, what is your will?

La. Cap.

This is the matter—Nurse, give leave
a while, we must talk in secret; Nurse, come back again,
I have remembred me, thou shalt hear my counsel: thou
know'st my daughter's of a pretty age.

Nurse.

Faith I can tell her age unto an hour.

La. Cap.

She's not eighteen.

Nurse.

I'll lay eighteen of my teeth, and yet to my
teeth be it spoken, I have but eight, she's not eighteen;
how long is it now to Lammas-tide?

La. Cap.

A fortnight and odd Days.

Nurse.

Even or odd, of all Days in the year come
Lammas-eve at night shall she be eighteen. 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 eighteen, that
shall she, marry, I remember it well. 'Tis since the
earthquake now fifteen Years, and she was wean'd; I never
shall forget it, of all the Days in the year, upon that
day; for I had then laid wormwood to my breast, sitting
in the sun under the dove-house-wall; my lord and you
were then at Mantua—nay, I do bear a brain. But
as I said, when it did taste the wormwood on the nipple
of the breast, and felt it bitter, pretty fool, to see it teachy
and fall out with the breast. Shake, quoth the dove-house
—'twas no need I trow, to bid me trudge; and
since that time now fifteen years, for then she could stand
alone, nay, by the rood she could have run, and wadled

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 Julé? and by my holy dam, the
pretty wretch left crying, and said, ay: To see now how
a jest shall come about I warrant, and I should live a thousand
Years, I should not forget it: Wilt thou not, Julé,
quoth he? and pretty fool, it stinted, and said, ay.

Jul.
And stint thee too, I pray thee peace.

Nurse.
Peace, I have done; God mark thee to his grace,
Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nurst:
And I might live to see thee married once,
I have my wish.

La. Cap.
And that same marriage is the very theme
I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,
How stands your disposition to be married?

Jul.
It is an honour that I dream not of.

Nurse.
An honour? were not I thine only nurse,
I'd say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat.

La. Cap.
Well, think of marriage now; younger than you
Here in Verona, ladies of esteem,
Are made already mothers. By my 'count,
I was your mother much upon these years
That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief,
The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.

Nurse.
A man, young lady, lady, such a man
As all the world—Why he's a man of wax.

La. Cap.
Verona's summer hath not such a flower.

Nurse.
Nay he's a flower, in faith a very flower.

La. Cap.
Speak briefly, can you like of Paris love?

Jul.
I'll look to like, if looking liking move;
But no more deep will I indart my eye,
Then your consent gives strength to make it fly.

Enter Gregory.
Greg.

Madam, new guests are come, and brave ones,
all in masks. You are call'd; my young lady asked for,
the Nurse curs'd in the pantry; supper almost ready to
be serv'd up, and every thing in extremity. I must
hence and wait.

La. Cap.
We follow thee,

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

A Hall in Capulet's House.
The Capulets, Ladies, Guests, and Maskers, are discover'd.
Cap.
Welcome, Gentlemen. Ladies, that have your feet
Unplagued with corns, we'll have a bout with you.
Who'll now deny to dance? She that makes dainty,
I'll swear hath corns. I have seen the day e'er now,
That I have worn a Visor, and cou'd tell
A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear,
Such as would please; 'tis gone; 'tis gone; 'tis gone!
[Musick plays, and they dance.
More light ye knaves, and turn the tables up;
And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.
Ah, Sirrah, this unlook'd-for sport comes well.
Nay sit, nay sit, good cousin Capulet,
For you and I are past our dancing days:
How long is't now since last yourself and I
Were in a mask?

2 Cap.
By'r lady, thirty years.

Cap.
What, man! 'tis not so much, 'tis not so much;
'Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,
Come Pentecost as quickly as it will,
Some five and twenty years, and then we mask'd.

2 Cap.
'Tis more, 'tis more; his son is elder, Sir:
His son is thirty.

Cap.
Will you tell me that?
His son was but a ward two years ago.

Rom.
Cousin Benvolio, do you mark that Lady, which
Doth enrich the hand of yonder gentleman.

Ben.
I do.

Rom.
Does she not teach the torches how to shine?
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night,
Like a rich jewel in an Æthiops' ear;
The measure done, I'll watch her to her place,
And touching hers, make happy my rude hand.
Be still, be still, my fluttering heart.

Tib.
This by his voice should be a Mountague,
Fetch me my rapier, boy; what, dares the slave
Come hither cover'd with an antick face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
Now by the stock and honour of my Race,
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.

Cap.
Why, how now, kinsman, wherefore storm you thus?

Tib.
Uncle, this a Mountague, our foe:
A villain that is hither come in spite,
To scorn and flout at our solemnity.

Cap.
Young Romeo, is't?

Tib.
That villain Romeo.

Cap.
Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone,
He bears him like a courtly gentleman:
And to say truth, Verona brags of him,
To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth.
I would not for the wealth of all this town
Here in my house do him disparagement:
Therefore be patient, take no note of him.

Tib.
It fits, when such a villain is a guest.
I'll not endure him.

Cap.
He shall be endur'd.
Be quiet, Cousin, or I'll make you quiet—

Tib.
Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting,
Makes my flesh tremble in their difference.
I will withdraw; but this intrusion shall,
Now seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall.

[A Dance here.
Rom.
If I prophane with my unworthy hand
[To Juliet.
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this.

[Kiss.
Jul.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
For palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss.

Rom.
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

Jul.
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

Rom.
Thus then, dear saint, let lips put up their prayers.

[Kiss.
Nurse.
Madam, your mother craves a word with you.

Ben.
What is her mother?

[To her nurse.
Nurse.
Marry, bachelor,
Her mother is the lady of the house,
And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous,
I nurs'd her daughter that you talk'd withal:
I tell you, he that can lay hold on her
Shall have the chink.

Ben.
Is she a Capulet?
Romeo, let's be gone, the sport is over.

Rom.
Ay, so I fear, the more is my mishap.

[Ex.
Cap.
Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone,
We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.
Is it e'en so? why then, I thank you all.
I thank you, honest gentlemen, good night:
More torches here—come on, then let's to supper.

[Exeunt.
Jul.
Come hither, nurse. What is yon gentleman?

Nurse.
The son and heir of old Tiberio

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

Nurse.
That, as I think, is young Mercutio.

Jul.
What's he that follows here, that would not dance?

Nurse.
I know not.

Jul.
Go ask his name. If he be married,
My grave is like to be my wedding-bed.

Nurse.
His name is Romeo, and a Mountague,
The only son of your great enemy.

Jul.
My only love sprung from my only hate!
Too early seen, unknown; and known too late.

Nurse.
What's this? what's this?

Jul.
A rhime I learn'd e'en now
Of one I talk'd withal.

[One calls within, Juliet.
Nurse.
Anon, anon—
Come, let's away, the strangers are all gone.

[Exeunt.