Serv. Find them out whose names are written here! It is written that the shoemaker should meddle with his yard, and the tailor with his last, the fisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to find those persons, whose names are here writ, and can never find what names the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good time. 40
Enter BENVOLIO and ROMEO.
Ben. 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: 45
Take thou some new infection to thy eye,
And the rank poison of the old will die.
Rom. Your plantain leaf is excellent for that.
Ben. For what, I pray thee?
Rom. For your broken shin. 50
Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad?
Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a madman is;
Shut up in prison, kept without my food,
Whipp’d and tormented, and — Good den, good fellow.
Serv. God gi’ good den. I pray, sir, can you read? 55
Rom. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.
Serv. Perhaps you have learn’d it without book: but, I pray, can you read any thing you see?
Rom. Ay, if I know the letters and the language.
Serv. Ye say honestly; rest you merry! [Offering to go.
Rom. Stay, fellow; I can read. 60
Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; County Anselme and his beauteous sisters; the lady widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio, and his lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; mine uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters; my fair niece Rosaline; Livia; Signior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt; Lucio and the lively Helena.
A fair assembly: whither should they come?
Serv. Up.
Rom. Whither?
Serv. To supper; to our house. 65
Rom. Whose house?
Serv. My master’s.
Rom. Indeed, I should have asked you that before.
Serv. Now I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet; and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray, come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry! [Exit.
Ben. At this same ancient feast of Capulet’s, 70
Sups the fair Rosaline, whom thou so lov’st,
With all the admired beauties of Verona:
Go thither; and, with unattainted eye
Compare her face with some that I shall show,
And I will make thee think thy swan a crow. 75
Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye
Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires!
And these, who often drown’d could never die,
Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars!
One fairer than my love! the all-seeing sun 80
Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun.
Ben. Tut! you saw her fair, none else being by,
Herself pois’d with herself in either eye;
But in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d
Your lady’s love against some other maid 85
That I will show you shining at this feast,
And she shall scant show well that now shows best.
Rom. I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,
But to rejoice in splendour of mine own. [Exeunt.
Act I. Scene III.
The Same. A Room in CAPULET’S House.
Enter LADY CAPULET and Nurse.
Lady Cap. Nurse, where’s my daughter? call her forth to me.
Nurse. Now, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old, —
I bade her come. What, lamb! what, ladybird! 5
God forbid! where’s this girl? what, Juliet!
Enter JULIET.
Jul. How now! who calls?
Nurse. Your mother.
Jul. Madam, I am here. 10
What is your will?
Lady Cap. 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. 15
Nurse. Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.
Lady Cap. She’s not fourteen.
Nurse. I’ll lay fourteen of my teeth —
And yet to my teen be it spoken I have but four —
She is not fourteen. How long is it now 20
To Lammas-tide?
Lady Cap. A fortnight and odd days.
Nurse. 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! — 25
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; 30
And she was wean’d, I never shall forget it,
Of all the days of the year, upon that day;
For I had then laid wormwood to my dug,
Sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall;
My lord and you were then at Mantua. 35
Nay, I do bear a brain: — but, as I said,
When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple
Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool!
To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug.
‘Shake,’ quoth the dove-house: ’twas no need, I trow, 40
To bid me trudge:
And since that time it is eleven years;
For then she could stand high lone; nay, by the rood,
She could have run and waddled all about;
For even the day before she broke her brow: 45
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 halidom, 50
The pretty wretch left crying, and said ‘Ay.’
To see now how a jest shall come about!
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.’ 55
Lady Cap. Enough of this; I pray thee, hold thy peace.
Nurse. Yes, madam. Yet I cannot choose but laugh,
To think it should leave crying, and say ‘Ay.’
And yet, I warrant, it had upon its brow
A bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone; 60
A parlous knock; and it cried bitterly:
‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face?
Thou wilt fall backward when thou com’st to age;
Wilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted and said ‘Ay.’
Jul. And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I. 65
Nurse. Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace!
Thou wast the prettiest babe that o’er I nursed:
An I might live to see thee married once,
I have my wish.
Lady Cap. Marry, that ‘marry’ is the very theme 70
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 would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat. 75
Lady 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, 80
/> 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.
Lady Cap. Verona’s summer hath not such a flower.
Nurse. Nay, he’s a flower; in faith, a very flower. 85
Lady Cap. 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;
Examine every married lineament, 90
And see how one another lends content;
And what obscur’d in this fair volume lies
Find written in the margent of his eyes.
This precious book of love, this unbound lover,
To beautify him, only lacks a cover: 95
The fish lives in the sea, and ’tis much pride
For fair without the fair within to hide:
That book in many eyes doth share the glory,
That in gold clasps locks in the golden story:
So shall you share all that he doth possess, 100
By having him making yourself no less.
Nurse. No less! nay, bigger; women grow by men.
Lady 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 endart mine eye 105
Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
Enter a Servant.
Serv. Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity. I must hence to wait; I beseech you, follow straight.
Lady Cap. We follow thee. Juliet, the county stays.
Nurse. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days. [Exeunt. 110
Act I. Scene IV.
The Same. A Street.
Enter ROMEO, MERCUTIO, BENVOLIO, with five or six Masquers, Torch-Bearers, and Others.
Rom. What! shall this speech be spoke for our excuse,
Or shall we on without apology?
Ben. The date is out of such prolixity: 5
We’ll have no Cupid hood-wink’d with a scarf,
Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath,
Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;
Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke
After the prompter, for our entrance: 10
But, let them measure us by what they will,
We’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.
Rom. Give me a torch: I am not for this ambling;
Being but heavy, I will bear the light.
Mer. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance. 15
Rom. Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes
With nimble soles; I have a soul of lead
So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
Mer. You are a lover; borrow Cupid’s wings,
And soar with them above a common bound. 20
Rom. I am too sore enpierced with his shaft
To soar with his light feathers; and so bound
I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe:
Under love’s heavy burden do I sink.
Mer. And, to sink in it, should you burden love; 25
Too great oppression for a tender thing.
Rom. Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,
Too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.
Mer. If love be rough with you, be rough with love;
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down. 30
Give me a case to put my visage in: [Putting on a masque.
A visor for a visor! what care I,
What curious eye doth quote deformities?
Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me.
Ben. Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in, 35
But every man betake him to his legs.
Rom. A torch for me; let wantons, light of heart,
Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels,
For I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase;
I’ll be a candle-holder, and look on. 40
The game was ne’er so fair, and I am done.
Mer. Tut! dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word:
If thou art Dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire,
Of — save your reverence — love, wherein thou stick’st
Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho! 45
Rom. Nay, that’s not so.
Mer. I mean, sir, in delay
We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits
Five times in that ere once in our five wits. 50
Rom. And we mean well in going to this masque;
But ’tis no wit to go.
Mer. Why, may one ask?
Rom. I dream’d a dream to-night.
Mer. And so did I. 55
Rom. Well, what was yours?
Mer. That dreamers often lie.
Rom. In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.
Mer. O! then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you.
Ben. Queen Mab! What’s she? 60
Mer. She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep: 65
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs;
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
The traces, of the smallest spider’s web;
The collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams;
Her whip, of cricket’s bone; the lash, of film; 70
Her waggoner, a small grey-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, 75
Time out o’ mind the fairies’ coach-makers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love;
O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on curtsies straight;
O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees; 80
O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream;
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.
Sometimes she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; 85
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail,
Tickling a parson’s nose as a’ lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another benefice;
Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, 90
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes;
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab 95
That plats the manes of horses in the night;
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once untangled much misfortune bodes;
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them and learns them first to bear, 100
Making them women of good carriage:
This is she —
Rom. Peace, peace! Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk’st of nothing.
Mer. True, I talk of dreams, 105
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy;
Which is as thin of substance as the air,
And more inconstant than the wind, who woos
Even now the frozen bosom of the north, 110
And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
Ben. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves;
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
Rom. I fear too early; for my mind misgives 115
Some consequence yet hanging in the stars
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night’s revels, and expire the term
Of a despised life clos’d in my breast
By some vile forfeit of untimely death. 120
But he, that hath the steerage of my course,
Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen.
Ben. Strike, drum. [Exeunt.
Act I. Scene V.
The Same. A Hall in CAPULET’S House.
Musicians waiting. Enter Servingmen.
First Serv. Where’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away? he shift a trencher! he scrape a trencher!
Sec. Serv. When good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they unwashed too, ’tis a foul thing.
First Serv. Away with the joint-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the plate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and, as thou lovest me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Antony! and Potpan! 5
Sec. Serv. Ay, boy; ready.
First Serv. You are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for in the great chamber.
Third Serv. We cannot be here and there too.
Sec. Serv. Cheerly, boys; be brisk a while, and the longer liver take all. [They retire behind.
Enter CAPULET and JULIET and Others of his house, meeting the Guests and Maskers. 10
Cap. Welcome, gentlemen! ladies that have their toes
Unplagu’d with corns will walk a bout with you.
Ah ha! my mistresses, which of you all
Will now deny to dance? she that makes dainty, she,
I’ll swear, hath corns; am I come near ye now? 15
Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day
That I have worn a visor, and could tell
A whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear
Such as would please; ’tis gone, ’tis gone, ’tis gone.
You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play. 20
A hall! a hall! give room, and foot it, girls. [Music plays, and they dance.
More light, ye knaves! and turn the tables up,
And quench the fire, the room has grown too hot.
Ah! sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well.
Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet, 25
For you and I are past our dancing days;
How long is ‘t now since last yourself and I
Were in a mask?
Sec. Cap. By ‘r Lady, thirty years.
Masters of the Theatre Page 27
